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THE   DRAMATIC  WORKS   OF  MOLIERE. 


THE  DRAMATIC  WORKS 

OF 

M  O  L  I  E  R  E 

RENDERED   INTO   ENGLISH 

BY   HENRI    VAN    LAUN 


A    NEW    EDITION 
With    a    Prefatory    Memoir,    Introductory   Notices   and   Notes 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH 

NINETEEN    ENGRAVINGS   ON    STEEL 

FROM    PAINTINGS   AND    DESIGNS   BY 

Horace    Vernet,  Desenne,  Johannot   and  Hersent 


COMPLETE  IN  SIX  VOLUMES 

VOLUME  I 


PHILADELPHIA 
GEORGE  BARRIE,  PUBLISHER 


Stack 
Annex 

5" 


V, 
GENERAL  INDEX 

TO   THE 

SIX  VOLUMES. 

VOL.  PAGB 

PREFACE i  i 

PREFATORY  MEMOIR i  xix 

AMPHITRYON      4  161 

BLUNDERER  (THE) i  i 

BORES  (THE) 2  43 

CITIZEN  WHO  APES  THE  NOBLEMAN  (THE)    .    .    5  193 

COMIC  PASTORAL  (A) 4  27 

COUNTESS  OF  ESCARBAGNAS  (THE) 6  57 

DON  GARCIA  OF  NAVARRE;  OR,  THE  JEALOUS 

PRINCE i  201 

DON  JUAN;  OR,  THE  FEAST  WITH  THE  STATUE    3  69 

FLYING  DOCTOR  (THE) 6  255 

FORCED  MARRIAGE  (THE) 2  215 

GEORGE  DANDIN;  OR,  THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND   4  221 


:GG39iO 


GENERAL    INDEX   TO   THE   SIX   VOLUMES. 

VOL.  PAGE 

IMAGINARY  INVALID  (THE) 6  145 

IMPROMPTU  OF  VERSAILLES    (THE) 2  179 

JEALOUSY  OF  LE  BARBOUILLE   (THE) 6  235 

LEARNED  LADIES  (THE) 6  83 

LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR 3  135 

LOVE-TIFF  (THE) I  73 

MAGNIFICENT  LOVERS   (THE) 5  139 

MELICERTE 4  i 

MISANTHROPE  (THE) 3  171 

MISER   (THE) 5  i 

MONSIEUR  DE  POURCEAUGNAC 5  83 

PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF  (THE)  ....  3  247 

PRETENTIOUS  YOUNG  LADIES   (THE)  ......  I  133 

PRINCESS  OF  ELIS  (THE) 3  i 

PSYCHE 5  277 

ROGUERIES  OF  SCAPIN  (THE) 6  I 

SCHOOL  FOR  HUSBANDS  (THE) 2  I 

SCHOOL  FOR  WIVES  CRITICISED  (THE)    ....  2  145 

SCHOOL  FOR  WIVES  (THE) 2  83 

SGANARELLE ;  OR,  THE   SELF-DECEIVED  HUS- 
BAND      2  169 

SICILIAN  (THE);  OR,  LOVE  MAKES  THE  PAINTER  4  39 

TARTUFFE ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE 4  67 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


VOLUME  ONE. 


PAGE 

PREFACE  i 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR xix 

THE  BLUNDERER. 

L'Etourdi,  ou  les  Contre-temps I 

THE  LOVE- TIFF. 

Le  Depit  Amoureux      73 

THE  PRETENTIOUS  YOUNG  LADIES. 

Les  Predeuses  Ridicules      133 

SGANARELLE  ;  OR,  THE  SELF-DECEIVED  HUSBAND. 

Sganarelle ;  ou,  le  Cocu  Imaginaire 169 

DON  GARCIA  OF  NAVARRE  ;  OR,  THE  JEALOUS  PRINCE. 

Don  Garde  de  Navarre ;  ou,  le  Prince  Jaloux    ....       201 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


VOLUME  ONE. 


PAGE 

PORTRAIT  OF  MOLIFRE Frontispiece 

BLUNDERER.    Act  IV.,  Scene  8. 

L?  Etourdi,  ou  les  Contre-temps 56 

LOVE- TIFF.     Act  IV.,  Scene  3. 

Le  Depit  Amoureux      116 

PRETENTIOUS  YOUNG  LADIES.     Scene  12. 

Les  Pr&cieuses  Ridicules 1 60 

COUNTRY  OF  TENDERNESS 168 


PREFACE. 


I  THINK  it  will  be  generally  admitted  that  Moliere  is 
the  greatest  comic  poet  France  has  produced,  and  that 
he  is  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  any  writer  of  character- 
comedies  on  the  ancient  or  modern  stage.  His  plays 
may  be  divided  into  six  classes  or  groups :  First,  the 
small  dramatic  poems  or  pastorals,  such  as  Psyche,  Ics 
Amants  magnifiques,  la  Princesse  d 'Elide,  Ics  FacJieux, 
Melicerte,  la  Pastorale  comique,  and  Amphitryon,  which- 
he  wrote  for  court  festivals,  by  order  of  Louis  XIV. ; 
Second,  his  farces,  written  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  less 
refined,  such  as  Ics  Fourbcrics  de  Scapin,  le  Bourgeois- 
gentilhomme ,  la  Comtesse  d'Escarbagnas,  Monsieur  de 
Pourceaugnac,  le  Medecin  malgre  lui,  George  Dandin,  le 
Sicilien,  V  Amour  Medecin,  le  Manage  force,  Sganarellet 
and  les  Precieuses  Ridicules, — and  yet,  notwithstanding 
their  absurdity,  attracting  the  higher  classes  by  their 
witty  descriptions  of  grotesque  characters ;  Third,  his 
comedies  — r  Etourdi,  I'Ecole  des  Maris,  lEcole  des 
femmes,  /'  Avare,  Don  Garde  de  Navarre,  le  Depit 
amour eux,  and  le  Malade  imaginaire, — in  each  of  which 
the  principal  object  seems  to  have  been  to  bring  into 
prominence  one  particular  vice  or  folly,  with  all  its 
necessary  consequences ;  Fourth,  those  splendidly  con- 

i 


11  PREFACE. 

ceived  plays,  Don  Juan,  Ics  Femmes  savantes,  Tartuffe, 
and  Ic  Misanthrope,  which  pourtray  humanity  in  all  its 
aspects ;  Fifth,  those  critical  short  pieces,  la  Critiqiie  de 
I  Ecole  des  femmes  and  r Impromptu  de  Versailles,  in 
which,  with  masterly  acumen,  he  defends  his  own 
plays  and  attacks  his  adversaries  ;  and  Sixth,  those 
early  attempts  of  his  comic  muse  le  Medecin  volant 
and/a  Jalousie  duBarbouille,  which  gave  ample  promise 
of  what  he  afterwards  became. 

It  is  always  difficult  to  state  when  a  playwright  has 
taken  from  any  other  author,  for  the  saying,  "  Je 
prends  mon  bien  partout  ou  je  le  trouve"  has  covered, 
and  still  covers,  a  multitude  of  literary  sins.  More- 
over, Moliere  possessed  a  power  of  absorption  and 
assimilation  which  enabled  him  so  to  vivify  the  ma- 
terials he  borrowed  that  they  became  new  creations 
of  incomparable  value.  In  this  sense,  to  take  an  idea 
or  a  mere  thought  from  another  author  can  hardly  be 
called  an  imitation ;  and  though  Moliere,  in  his  first 
two  or  three  plays,  translated  several  scenes  from 
Italian  authors,  he  has  scarcely  ever  done  so  in  his 
latter  pieces.  To  mention  which  of  his  comedies  I 
consider,  or  rather  which  are  generally  thought,  the 
best,  would  be  difficult,  where  everything  is  so  emi- 
nent ;  for  in  all  his  plays  characters  will  be  found 
which  demonstrate  his  thorough  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  display  his  genius.  To  discover  these 
little  peculiarities  in  which  the  specific  difference  of 
character  consists ;  to  distinguish  between  what  men 
do  from  custom  or  fashion,  and  what  they  perform 
through  their  own  natural  idiosyncracy ;  to  select, 


PREFACE.  Ill 

unite,  and  draw  these  peculiarities  to  a  dramatic  point, 
demands  real  genius,  and  that  of  the  highest  order. 

Generally  Moliere's  satire  is  directed  against  hypo- 
crites, against  quacks,  against  the  affectation  of  learn- 
ing amongst  ladies,  and  against  snobbishness.  If  I 
were  to  enumerate,  however,  all  the  characters  our 
author  has  created,  I  should  arrive  at  the  sum  total 
of  all  human  passions,  all  human  feelings,  all  human 
vices,  and  at  every  type  of  the  different  classes  of 
society.  In  I'Avare  sordid  avarice  is  represented  by 
Harpagon,  and  want  of  order  and  lavish  prodigality  by 
his  son  Cleante ;  in  le  Festin  de  Pierre  the  type  of 
shameless  vice  is  Don  Juan,  Donna  Elvira  displays 
resignation  amidst  love  disgracefully  betrayed,  Ma- 
thurine  primitive  and  uncultivated  coquetry,  and 
Mons.  Dimanche  the  greed  of  a  tradesman  who  wishes 
to  make  money.  Tartuffe,  in  the  comedy  of  that 
name,  represents  hypocrisy  and  downright  wicked- 
ness. M.  Jourdain,  a  tradesman  who  has  made 
money  and  who  imitates  a  nobleman,  is,  in  le  Bour- 
geois-gentilhomme,  no  bad  specimen  of  self-sufficient 
vanity,  folly,  and  ignorance ;  whilst  Dorantc,  in  the 
same  play,  is  a  well-copied  example  of  the  fashionable 
swindler  of  that  period.  In  le  Misanthrope,  Alceste 
pourtrays  great  susceptibility  of  tenderness  and  hon- 
our, Celimene,  wit  without  any  feeling,  and  Philinte, 
quiet  common  sense,  amiability,  intelligence,  instruc- 
tion, knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  spirit  of  refined 
criticism.  This  is  also  displayed  by  Chrysalde  in 
rEcole  des  Femmes,  by  Beralde,  in  le  Malade  imaginaire, 
and  by  Ariste  in  VEcole  des  Marts;  whilst  Sganerelle 


IV  PREFACE. 

in  the  latter  play  is  an  example  of  foolish  and  coarse 
jealousy.  George  Dandin,  in  the  comedy  of  that 
name,  is  a  model  of  weakness  of  character  and  irreso- 
lution. Angelique,  an  impudent  and  heartless  woman, 
and  her  father,  Monsieur  de  Sotenville,  the  coarse, 
proud,  country  squire  of  that  age.  Argan,  in  le  Ma- 
lade  imaginare,  represents  egotism  and  pusillanimity ; 
Vadius  and  Trissotin,  in  les  Femmes  savantes,  pedantic 
foolishness  and  self-conceit ;  Agnes,  in  I 'Ecole  des 
Femmes,  cunning  as  well  as  ingenuity ;  and  Aglaure, 
in  Psyche,  feminine  jealousy.  Finally,  Nicole,  Dorine, 
Martine,  Marotte,  Toinetfe,  and  Lisette  personify  the 
homely  servant-girls,  who,  possessing  plain,  down- 
right common  sense,  point  out  the  affectation  and 
ridiculous  pretensions  of  their  companions  and  supe- 
riors; whilst  Claudine,  in  George  Dandin,  Nerine,  in 
Mons.  de  Pourceaugnac,  and  Frosine,  in  the  Avare, 
represent  the  intriguant  in  petticoats, — a  female  Mas- 
carille. 

In  how  far  it  is  true  that  many  of  Moliere's  cha- 
racters were  copied  from  persons  well  known  at  the 
time  his  plays  were  represented,  there  is  now  no  cer- 
tain means  of  judging  ;  but  I  think  it  extremely  un- 
likely that  he  should  have  brought  on  the  stage  and 
ridiculed  persons  of  the  highest  rank,  as  it  is  said  he 
has  done ;  though  it  is  very  probable  that  a  general 
likeness  existed  between  the  character  produced  and 
the  person  whom  it  was  thought  he  imitated.  In  the 
Introductory  Notice  to  each  play  of  this  translation, 
due  attention  will  be  paid  to  any  such  inuendos,  and 
to  the  degree  of  credence  which  they  deserve. 


PREFACE.  V 

The  style  of  Moliere  is  the  style  suitable  for  comedy, 
and  therefore  extremely  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
render  into  any  other  language.  Perhaps  of  no  writer 
are  so  many  phrases  quoted  in  French  conversation ; 
not  seldom  by  people  who  have  never  read  him,  and 
who  only,  parrot-like,  repeat  what  they  have  heard. 
Several  of  his  expressions  have  become  proverbial,  or 
are  used  as  wise  saws  to  be  uttered  with  solemn  face 
and  bated  breath. 

Another  not  less  remarkable  faculty  of  Moliere  is 
that  the  language  his  personages  employ  is  precisely 
suited  to  them.  It  varies  according  to  their  age, 
character,  rank,  and  profession,  whilst  the  very  sen- 
tence becomes  long  or  short,  stilted  or  tripping,  pe- 
dantic or  elastic,  finical  or  natural,  coarse  or  over- 
refined,  according  as  an  old  or  young  man,  a  marquis 
or  a  citizen,  a  scholar  or  a  dunce,  has  to  speak.  It 
can  be  said  of  Moliere,  more  than  of  any  other  author 
we  know,  that  he  always  employs  the  right  word  in 
the  right  place.  Hence  different  commentators  have 
tried  to  show  that  he  was  a  kind  of  Admirable  Crich- 
ton,  and  that  he  knew  and  understood  everything. 
Mons.  Castil-Blaze  wrote  a  book  to  prove  that  Mo- 
liere was  a  perfect  musician  ;  MM.  Truinet  and  Parin- 
gault,  barristers,  printed  one  to  convince  the  world  he 
was  a  most  able  and  learned  lawyer ;  Mons.  M.  Ray- 
naud,  that  he  must  have  studied  medicine  most  tho- 
roughly in  order  to  be  able  to  imitate  so  accurately 
the  medical  jargon  of  his  time.  And  still  a  number 
of  books  might  have  been  written  to  prove  that  he 
knew  perfectly  many  more  things.  Even  his  peasants 


vi  PREFACE. 

speak  correctly  the  dialect  of  the  province  or  county 
Moliere  gives  them  as  the  land  of  their  birth ;  all  his 
creations  bear  proofs  of  his  genius  in  an  incisiveness 
of  expression  and  clearness  of  thought  which  no  other 
writer  has  equalled. 

Moliere  has  written  some  of  his  comedies  in  prose, 
others  in  verse, — and  in  verse  that  has  none  of  the 
stiffness  of  the  ordinary  French  rhyme,  but  which 
becomes  in  his  hands  a  delightful  medium  for  spark- 
ling sallies,  bitter  sarcasms,  well  sustained  and  sprightly 
conversations.  He  has  also  managed  blank  verse  with 
wonderful  precision, — a  rare  gift  among  French  au- 
thors. The  whole  of  le  Sicilien,  the  love  scenes  of  the 
Avare,  the  monologues  of  Georges  Dandin,  and  certain 
scenes  of  le  Fcstin  de  Pierre,  are  written  in  this  metre. 

Moliere's  plays  have  been  translated  into  every 
language  of  Europe,  and  some  of  them  even  into  the 
classical  tongues ;  they  have  found  admirers  wherever 
intellectual  beings  are  congregated ;  they  have  been 
carefully  conned  and  studied  by  literary  men  of  every 
age  and  clime;  and  Goethe  himself  read  some  of 
these  comedies  every  year. 

I  have  attempted  to  give  a  new  translation  of  all 
Moliere's  plays.  After  mature  consideration  the  idea 
has  been  abandoned  of  reproducing,  either  in  rhyme 
or  blank  verse,  those  which  in  the  original  are  in 
poetry.  The  experiments  which  have  been  made  to 
represent  some  of  these  in  metre  have  not  greatly 
charmed  me ;  and  as  they  were  tried  by  men  of  talent, 
and  as  I  do  not  pretend  to  possess  greater  gifts  than 
my  predecessors,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 


PREFACE.  VI 1 

an  imitation  of  Moliere's  style  in  any  metre  is  next  to 
an  impossibility,  but  that  a  faithful  and  literal  transla- 
tion in  prose,  even  if  it  cannot  preserve  the  fire  of  the 
original,  may  still  render  the  ideas,  and  represent  to 
the  English  reader  as  clear  a  perception  of  Moliere's 
characters  as  can  be  obtained  in  a  foreign  tongue. 

I  have  however  endeavoured  not  to  be  satisfied  with 
a  mere  verbal  version,  but  to  preserve  and  convey  the 
genuine  spirit,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  the  differ- 
ence of  the  two  languages.  In  the  Introductory  No- 
tices a  compact,  critical  judgment  of  the  merits  or 
demerits  of  each  play  is  also  given.  But  in  order  to 
place  ourselves  on  a  right  standpoint  for  judging 
them,  we  must  not  forget  that  Moliere  wrote  his  plays 
to  be  represented  on  the  stage,  and  not  to  be  read  in 
the  study  only;  that  therefore  we  must  recall,  on 
reading  him,  the  change  of  voice,  the  step,  the  smile, 
the  gesture,  the  twinkle  of  the  eye  or  movement  of 
the  head  in  the  actor.  Thus  we  are  never  tired  of 
perusing  him ;  he  never  cloys ;  we  can  remember 
all  his  good  sayings,  quote  them,  study  him  again 
and  again,  and  every  time  discover  fresh  beauties. 

A  remarkable  characteristic  of  Moliere  is  that  he 
does  not  exaggerate;  his  fools  are  never  over-witty, 
his  buffoons  too  grotesque,  his  men  of  wit  too  anxious 
to  display  their  smartness,  and  his  fine  gentlemen  too 
fond  of  immodest  and  ribald  talk.  His  satire  is  always 
kept  within  bounds,  his  repartees  are  never  out  of 
place,  his  plots  are  but  seldom  intricate,  and  the  moral 
of  his  plays  is  not  obtruded,  but  follows  as  a  natural 
consequence  of  the  whole.  He  rarely  rises  to  those 


Viii  PREFACE. 

lofty  realms  of  poetry  where  Shakespeare  so  often 
soars,  for  he  wrote,  not  idealistic  but  character-come- 
dies ;  which  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  that  some  of  his 
would-be  admirers  consider  him  rather  common-place. 
His  claim  to  distinction  is  based  only  on  strong 
common  sense,  good  manners,  sound  morality,  real 
wit,  true  humor,  a  great  facile,  and  accurate  command 
of  language,  and  a  photographic  delineation  of  nature. 
It  cannot  be  denied  that  there  is  little  action  in  his 
plays,  but  there  is  a  great  deal  of  natural  conversation  : 
his  personages  show  that  he  was  a  most  attentive 
observer  of  men,  even  at  court,  where  a  certain  varnish 
of  over-refinement  conceals  nearly  all  individual  fea- 
tures. He  always  makes  vice  appear  in  its  most  ridi- 
culous aspect,  in  order  to  let  his  audience  laugh  at  and 
despise  it ;  his  aim  is  to  correct  the  follies  of  the  age 
by  exposing  them  to  ridicule.  Shakespeare,  on  the 
contrary,  has  no  lack  of  incidents ;  he  roves  through 
camp,  and  court,  and  grove,  through  solitary  forests 
and  populous  cities ;  he  sketches  in  broad  outlines 
rather  than  with  minute  strokes ;  he  defines  classes 
rather  than  individuals,  and  instead  of  pourtraying 
petty  vanities  and  human  foibles  prefers  to  deal  with 
deep  and  tumultuous  passions,  to  such  an  extent  that 
some  of  his  comedies  are  highly  dramatic.  But  both 
poets  are  great,  and  perhaps  unsurpassed  in  their  own 
way,  and  both  have  many  similar  passages.  When- 
ever these  occur  I  have  taken  notice  of  them.  As 
specimens,  let  me  refer  to  Mascarille's  soliloquy  in  the 
Blunderer  (iii.  i),  and  Launcelot  Gobbo's  speech  in 
the  Merchant  of  Venice  (ii.  2) ;  in  the  same  play  Mas- 


PREFACE.  IX 

carille  refusing  money,  and  Autolycus  in  the  Win- 
ter's Tale,  (iv.  3)  doing  the  same ;  the  speech  of  Gros- 
Rene  in  Sganarellc  (i.  7),  and  the  scene  between  Sir 
Valentine  and  Speed  (ii.  i)  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona.  Monsieur  Jourdain,  in  The  Citizen  iv/io  apes 
the  Nobleman  (le  Bourgeois-gcntilJwmme),  when  putting 
on  his  hat  at  the  entreaty  of  Dorante,  says  "  J'aime 
mieux  etre  civil  qit'  importnn ;  Master  Slender,  upon 
entering  the  house  before  Mrs.  Page,  says,  in  the 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  (i.  i),  "  I'll  rather  be  un- 
mannerly than  troublesome ; "  Sosia,  in  Amphitryon 
(i.  2),  sings,  in  order  to  show  that  he  is  not  afraid 
when  Mercury  appears;  Nick  Bottom,  in  A  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream  (iii.  i)  says,  "  I  will  sing,  that  they 
shall  hear  I  am  not  afraid."  The  description  of  the 
horse  in  the  Bores  (les  Fdcheux)  is  also  worthy  of 
being  compared  with  that  spoken  by  the  Dauphin  in 
Henry  V.  (iii.  6),  and  with  the  "  round-hoof  d,  short- 
jointed  "  horse  in  Venus  and  Adonis. 

Moliere's  plays  have  been  already  several  times 
translated  into  English.  I  shall  give  a  short  history 
of  each  of  these  translations,  observing  however,  be- 
forehand, that  though  many  faults  may  be  found  in 
them,  I  have  no  inclination  to  cavil  at  anything  that 
my  predecessors  may  have  badly  done  or  wholly 
omitted.  And  I  here  once  and  for  all  state  that  I 
have  never  scrupled  to  adopt  any  expression,  turn  of 
thought,  or  even  page,  of  any  or  every  translation  of 
my  predecessors,  whenever  I  found  I  could  not  im- 
prove upon  it. 

The  oldest  of  these  English  translations  is  by  Mr. 


X  PREFACE. 

John  Ozell,  appeared  in  six  volumes,  was  published  in 
London,  and  printed  for  Bernard  Lintott,  at  the 
Cross-Keys,  between  the  Two  Temple  Gates,  in  Fleet 
Street,  MDCCXIV.  It  is  full  of  racy  and  sometimes 
even  witty  expressions.  Unfortunately  where  Mo- 
liere slightly  hints  at  something  indelicate,  Ozell  em- 
ploys the  broadest  language  possible.  Moreover,  he 
very  often  paraphrases  or  imitates,  and  on  the  whole 
translates  rather  too  freely.  This  work  is  dedicated  to 
the  Earl  of  Dorset,  in  words  which  are  rather  a  genea- 
logical history  of  the  Sackville  family  than  an  intro- 
duction to  Moliere. 

The  second  translation  is  called,  "  Select  Comedies 
of  M.  de  Moliere,  French  and  English,  in  eight  vol- 
umes, with  a  frontispiece  to  each  Comedy ;  to  which 
is  prefix'd  a  curious  print  of  the  author,  with  his  life 
in  French  and  English.  Hie  meret  aera  liber  Sociis ; 
hie  et  mare  transit  et  longum  noto  scriptori  prorogat 
aevum.  Horat.  London,  printed  for  John  Watts,  at 
the  Printing-Office  in  Wild-Court  near  Lincoln' s-Inn 
Fields,  MDCCXXXII."  This  translation  is  less  racy,  but 
far  more  literal  than  the  former.  One  of  the  transla- 
tors, in  the  Preface  to  The  Self-deceived  Husband  (see 
page  172),  oddly  enough  dedicated  to  Miss  Wolsten- 
holme,  dates  from  Enfield,  Jan.  ist,  1731-2,  and  signs 
himself "  H.  B.,"  probably  Henry  Baker;  the  other, 
in  the  Preface  to  Tartuffe,  dedicated  to  Mr.  Wyndham, 
dates  from  the  Academy  in  Soho-Square,  London, 
July  25,  1732,  and  subscribes  himself,  "  Your  most 
obliged  and  obedient  humble  servant,  Martin  Clare;" 
who  appears  to  fame  unknown.  Some  of  the  pictures 


PREFACE.  XI 

in  this  edition  have  been  drawn  by  Hogarth,  of  which 
the  one  before  Sganarelle  ou  le  Cocu  imaginaire  is  the 
best.  Of  the  thirty-one  plays  then  known  to  have 
been  written  by  Moliere,  only  seventeen  are  translated  ; 
each  of  them  is  dedicated  to  a  separate  person,  and 
the  whole  to  the  Queen,  in  the  following  words : — 

TO  THE  QUEEN. 

MADAM, — When  MAJESTY  vouchsafes  to  patronize  the  wise 
and  the  learned,  and  a  QUEEN  recommends  KNOWLEDGE  and 
VERTUE  to  her  people,  what  blessings  may  we  not  promise 
ourselves  in  such  happy  circumstances  ?  That  this  is  the 
great  intention  and  business  of  your  MAJESTY'S  Life,  witness 
the  reception,  which  the  labours  of  a  Clark,  a  Newton,  a  Locke, 
and  a  Wollaston  have  met  with  from  your  MAJESTY,  and  the 
immortal  honours  you  have  paid  their  names.  Whatever 
therefore  can  any  ways  conduce  to  those  glorious  ends,  need 
not  question  your  royal  approbation  and  favour;  and  upon 
this  presumption  MOLIERE  casts  himself  at  your  MAJESTY'S 
feet  for  protection. 

This  merry  philosopher,  MADAM,  hath  taken  as  much  pains 
to  laugh  ignorance  and  immorality  out  of  the  world,  as  the 
other  great  sages  did  to  reason  'em  out ;  and  as  the  general- 
ity of  mankind  can  stand  an  argument  better  than  a  jest,  and 
bear  to  be  told  how  good  they  ought  to  be,  with  less  concern 
than  to  be  shown  how  ridiculous  they  are,  his  success,  we  con- 
ceive, has  not  been  much  inferior. 

Your  MAJESTY  need  not  be  informed  how  much  the  manners 
and  conduct  of  a  people  are  dependent  on  their  diversions ; 
and  you  are  therefore  convinced  how  necessary  it  is  (since 
diversions  are  necessary)  to  give  'em  such  as  may  serve  to 
polish  and  reform  'em.  With  this  view,  MADAM,  was  the 
following  translation  undertaken.  By  a  perusal  of  these 
scenes,  every  reader  will  plainly  perceive  that  obscenities  and 
immoralities  are  no  ways  necessary  to  make  a  diverting  com- 
edy ;  they'll  learn  to  distinguish  betwixt  honest  satire  and 


scurrilous  invective  ;  betwixt  decent  repartee  and  tasteless 
ribaldry  ;  in  short,  between  vicious  satisfactions  and  rational 
pleasures.  And  if  these  plays  should  come  to  be  read  by  the 
generality  of  people  (as  your  Majesty's  approbation  will  un- 
questionably make  'em),  they'll  by  degrees  get  a  more  just 
and  refined  taste  in  their  diversions,  be  better  acquainted,  and 
grow  more  in  love  with  the  true  excellencies  of  dramatick 
writings.  By  this  means  our  poets  will  be  encouraged  to  aim 
at  those  excellencies,  and  blush  to  find  themselves  so  much 
outdone  in  manners  and  vertue  by  their  neighbours.  Nay, 
there's  no  reason  can  possibly  be  given,  MADAM,  why  these 
very  pieces  should  not  most  of  'em  be  brought  upon  the  Eng- 
lish stage.  For,  tho'  our  translation  of  'em,  as  it  now  stands, 
may  be  thought  too  literal  and  close  for  that  purpose,  yet  the 
dramatick  writers  might,  with  very  little  pains,  so  model  and 
adapt  them  to  our  theatre  and  age,  as  to  procure  'em  all  the 
success  could  be  wished;  and  we  may  venture  to  affirm,  that 
'twould  turn  more  to  their  own  account,  and  the  satisfaction 
of  their  audiences,  than  anything  they  are  able  to  produce 
themselves.  This,  too,  they  ought  to  be  the  more  earnest  to 
attempt,  as  the  most  probable  means  of  drawing  down  a 
larger  share  of  royal  influence  on  the  stage,  which  has  been 
too  justly  forfeited  by  the  licentious  practice  of  modern  play- 
wrights. 

We  might  here,  MADAM,  take  occasion  to  particularize  our 
author's  perfections  and  excellencies,  but  those  your  MAJESTY 
wants  no  information  of.  All  we  shall  therefore  observe  to 
your  MAJESTY  is,  that  wherever  learning,  wit,  and  politeness 
flourish,  MOLIERE  has  always  had  an  extraordinary  reputa- 
tion ;  and  his  plays,  which  are  translated  into  so  many  lan- 
guages, and  acted  in  so  many  nations,  will  gain  him  admiration 
as  long  as  the  stage  shall  endure.  But  what  will  contribute 
more  than  all  to  his  glory  and  happiness,  will  be  the  patronage 
of  a  BRITISH  PRINCESS,  and  the  applause  of  a  BRITISH  audi- 
ence. 

We  dare  not  think,  MADAM,  of  offering  anything  in  this 
address  that  might  look  like  panegyrick,  lest  the  world  should 


PREFACE.  XI 11 

condemn  us  for  meddling  with  a  task  above  our  talents,  and 
saying  too  little— Your  MAJESTY,  for  presuming  to  say 
anything  at  all.  There  are  many  vertues  and  perfections,  so 
very  peculiar  in  your  MAJESTY'S  character,  and  so  rarely 
found  amongst  the  politicks  of  princes,  that  they  require  a 
masterly  and  deliberate  hand  to  do  'em  justice — Such  a  zeal 
for  religion  moderated  by  reason — such  a  benevolent  study 
for  composing  all  factions  and  dissensions — such  a  laudable 
ambition,  which  aims  at  power  only  in  order  to  benefit  man- 
kind, and  yet  such  a  glorious  contempt,  even  of  empire  itself, 
when  inconsistent  with  those  Principles  whose  Truth,  you 
were  satisfy'd  of.  These  are  such  elevated  and  shining  ver- 
tues, as  even  the  vicious  themselves  must  have  a  secret  vene- 
ration for — But  as  your  MAJESTY'S  great  pleasure  is  privately 
to  merit  applause,  not  publickly  to  receive  it ;  for  fear  we 
should  interrupt  you  in  that  noble  delight,  we'll  beg  leave  to 
subscribe  Our  Selves, — May  it  please  your  MAJESTY,  your 
MAJESTY'S  most  obedient  and  most  devoted  humble  servants, 

THE  TRANSLATORS. 

The  third  translation  is  "The  works  of  Moliere, 
French  and  English,  in  ten  volumes,  a  new  edition, 
London,  printed  for  John  Watts,  MDCCXXXIX."  This 
translation  appears  to  be  precisely  the  same  as  the 
former  one,  a  few  words  slightly  altered ;  the  motto 
from  Horace  on  the  title-page  is  the  same  ;  and  the 
plays  not  found  in  the  "  Select  Comedies  "  are  here 
translated.  The  pictures  are  identical  with  those  of 
the  translation  mentioned  above,  with  the  exception  of 
those  in  front  of  the  fourteen  comedies  added,  which 
have  engravings,  and  very  good  ones  too,  drawn  by 
the  celebrated  Boucher.  According  to  Lowndes,  this 
translation  was  executed  by  Henry  Baker  and  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Miller.  The  work  is  dedicated  to  the  Prince 


Xiv  PREFACE. 

and  Princess  of  Wales,  and  the  dedication  of  the  for- 
mer translation  to  the  Queen  does  duty  here,  some- 
what abridged.  The  chief  difference  is,  that  whilst, 
in  the  former,  the  virtues  of  the  Queen  are  all  specified 
and  catalogued  in  the  paragraph  beginning,  "  We  dare 
not  think,"  under  the  headings  "  zeal  for  religion," 
"  benevolent  study,"  "  laudable  ambition,"  and  "  glor- 
ious contempt,"  they  are  only  mentioned  in  the  pre- 
sent preface  in  a  lump  as  "many  vertues  and  perfec- 
tions ;"  but,  to  make  up  for  it,  the  Prince  and  Princess 
of  Wales  are  praised  for  their  "  unparallel'd  union  of 
hearts  and  affections." 

The  dedication  begins  thus : — 

To  THEIR  ROYAL  HIGHNESSES  THE 
PRINCE  AND  PRINCESS  OF  WALES. 

May  it  please  your  Royal  Highnesses, — The  refined  taste 
your  Royal  Highnesses  are  both  so  celebrated  for  in  the  Belles 
Lettres,  and  the  peculiar  countenance  you  have  shewn  to  thea- 
trical performances,  have  embolden'd  the  editors  and  transla- 
tors of  the  following  work  to  lay  it  at  your  feet. 

Moliere  has  been  translated  into  most  of  the  languages,  and 
patroniz'd  by  most  of  the  Princes  in  Europe:  But  if  we  have 
been  capable  of  doing  him  as  much  justice  in  our ''version, 
as  we  have  been  prudent  enough  to  do  him  in  the  choice  of 
patrons,  he'll  be  more  happy  in  speaking  English  than  all 
the  rest. 

The  rest  of  the  dedication  is  taken  from  that  to  the 
queen,  beginning  from  "  Your  Majesty  (your  Royal 
Highnesses)  need  not  be  informed  "  until  "  with  the 
true  excellencies  of  Dramatick  Writings."  The  end- 
ing varies,  and  we  give  it  here  below : — 


PREFACE.  XV 

By  this  means  our  poets  will  be  encourag'd  to  aim  at  those 
excellencies,  and  be  assisted  in  producing  entertainments 
more  agreeable  to  nature,  good  sense,  and  your  Royal  High- 
nesses taste. 

We  dare  not  think  of  offering  anything  in  this  address  that 
might  look  like  panegyrick  ;  there  are  many  vertues  and  per- 
fections so  singular  in  your  Royal  Highnesses  characters,  that 
they  require  a  masterly  and  deliberate  hand  to  do  'em  justice. 
Give  us  leave,  SIR  and  MADAM,  only  to  hint  at  one,  which  is 
that  unparallel'd  union  of  hearts  and  affections  so  rarely 
found  in  the  palaces  of  princes,  and  which  shines  so  conspic- 
uously in  your  Royal  Highnesses  that  we  durst  not  presume 
so  much  as  to  separate  your  very  names,  or  make  our  ad- 
dress to  either  singly. 

That  your  Royal  Highnesses  may  long  enjoy  that  mutual  bliss 
is  the  universal  prayer  of  mankind,  and  of  none  more  than 
of  your  Royal  Highnesses'  most  obedient  and  most  devoted 
humble  servants, 

THE  TRANSLATORS. 

Another  similar  edition  of  our  author  was  pub- 
lished by  the  same  firm  in  MDCCXLVIII. 

Two  editions  of  the  same  translation  of  Moliere's 
works  were  also  published  by  D.  Browne  and  A. 
Millar  in  MDCCXLVIII.  and  in  MDCCLV. 

The  next  Moliere,  an  elegant  Scottish  reprint  of  the 
English  part  of  the  above  edition  in  ten  volumes,  was 
published  in  Glasgow  in  five  volumes,  "printed  by 
Robert  Urie,  and  sold  by  John  Gilmour,  Bookseller 
in  the  Saltmarcat,  MDCCLI." 

An  edition  of  our  author,  according  to  Lowndes, 
Was  also  published  in  Berwick-on-Tweed,  1770,  6 
vols.,  but  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  hold  of  a  copy 
of  this  translation.  In  the  British  Museum  there  is 


Xvi  PREFACE. 

however  a  translation  of  five  plays  by  Moliere,  pub- 
lished in  one  volume,  and  printed  at  Berwick  for  R. 
Taylor,  1771. 

Seven  comedies  of  Moliere,  most  spiritedly  trans- 
lated from  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of  the  "  Comic 
Theatre,  being  a  free  translation  of  all  the  best  French 
Comedies  by  Samuel  Foote,  Esq.,  and  others,  London  : 
printed  by  Dry  den  Leach,  for  J.  Coote,  in  Paternoster 
Row ;  G.  Kearsly,  in  Ludgate  Street ;  and  S.  Crow- 
der  &  Co.,  in  Paternoster  Row,  MDCCLXII."  The  pro- 
prietors state,  however,  to  the  public,  "One  Comedy 
in  each  volume  of  this  work  will  be  translated  by  Mr. 
Foote,  his  other  avocations  not  permitting  him  to 
undertake  more ;  and  the  rest  by  two  other  gentlemen, 
who,  it  is  presumed,  will  acquit  themselves  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  merit  the  approbation  of  the  public." 

It  appears  that  of  the  above  "  Comic  Theatre  "  an 
edition  was  prepared  for  Ireland.  At  least  I  have 
seen  a  volume  with  a  separate  printed  title  page; 
"  printed  for  J.  Coote,  and  sold  by  R.  Bell,  in  Stephen 
Street,  Dublin.  MDCCLXV." 

Of  single  translated  comedies  of  Moliere  no  notice 
has  been  taken,  in  order  not  to  increase  these  already 
too  long  bibliographical  remarks. 

Generally  the  proper  names  used  by  Moliere  have 
not  been  Italianized  or  rendered  into  an  English  form 
in  this  translation,  for  wherever  the  scene  of  his  play  is 
laid,  his  characters,  manners,  and  customs  are  always 
thoroughly  French,  and  should  therefore  as  much  as 
possible  remain  so. 

English  dramatic  authors  have  borrowed,  and  then 


PREFACE.  XV11 

adapted  or  imitated  from  Moliere.  Dryden,  Van- 
brugh,  Flecknoe,  Fielding,  Bickerstaffe,  Murphy,  Miller, 
Ravenscroft,  Shadwell,  Mrs.  Centlivre,  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn, 
Crowne,  Lacy,  Wycherley,  Colman,  Garrick,  Swiney, 
Sheridan,  Otway,  Foote,  Gibber,  and  several  other  less 
known  dramatic  authors,  are  among  the  borrowers ; 
and  though  not  rarely  showing  great  talent  in  their 
adaptation,  yet  as  a  general  rule  they  have  always 
been  careful  to  leave  nothing  to  the  imagination,  and 
to  emphasize  the  slightest  mot  of  our  author  in  the 
broadest  language  possible.  Too  often  they  have  veri- 
fied the  saying  of  one  of  the  admirers  of  our  poet,  "La 
ou  Moliere  glisse,  ses  traducteurs  apptcyent  ct  s1  enfoncent." 

Several  farces  which  have  never  been  printed  have 
been  attributed  to  Moliere.  Two  of  these,  Ic  Medcdn 
volant  and  lajealonsie  du  Barbouille,  have  of  late  been 
added  to  the  complete  edition  of  his  works.  They 
give  indications  of  what  our  author  promised  to  be- 
come, and  will  be  found  in  the  last  volume  of  this 
edition,  for  the  first  time  rendered  into  English. 

Nearly  all  known  editions  of  Moliere  have  been 
consulted  by  me  whilst  engaged  upon  this  translation  ; 
but  in  any  cases  of  doubt  I  always  referred  to  the 
literal  reprints  of  the  original  editions  published  in 
1666  and  1682,  and  only  lately  republished  in  eight 
volumes  by  Mons.  A.  Lemerre,  of  Paris;  as  distin- 
guished for  their  accuracy  and  good  and  pithy  notes 
as  for  their  typographical  excellence. 

In  the  Prefatory  Memoir  I  have  admitted  no  hypo- 
thetical or  fanciful  assertions,  but  have  only  stated 
what  is  really  known  of  him. 


Xviil  PREFACE. 

My  best  thanks  are  due  to  Mons.  Eugene  Despois, 
the  learned  editor  of  the  new  edition  of  Moliere,  now 
in  course  of  publication  by  Messrs.  Hachette,  for  val- 
uable advice  and  elucidations  kindly  given. 

I  have  likewise  to  express  my  great  obligations  to 
Mons.  Guillard,  the  archiviste  of  the  Comedie  Fran- 
qaise,  for  willing  and  kind  assistance  rendered  with 
regard  to  the  correct  costumes  of  the  times  of  Louis 
XIV. 

Last,  but  not  least,  I  have  to  thank  the  superin- 
tendents and  employes  of  the  reading-room  in  the 
British  Museum,  for  many  kind  suggestions,  which 
have  often  shortened  my  labours,  and  for  their  untiring 
willingness  to  aid  me,  whenever  required. 

H.  VAN  LAUN. 


PREFATORY  MEMOIR. 


JEAN  BAPTISTE  POQUELIN,  afterwards  Moliere,  was  born  at 
Paris,  January  I5th,  1622.  His  father,  Jean  Poquelin,  was  a 
well-to-do  upholsterer  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  who  in  1631 
attained  to  the  height  of  his  ambition  in  becoming  one  of  the 
"  tapissiers  ordinaires,"  and  later  one  of  the  "valets  de 
chambre  tapissiers  "  to  the  king.  It  was  a  post  which  Jean 
Poquelin's  brother  had  held  before  ;  and  he  coveted  nothing 
better  for  his  son  than  that  he  should  pursue  the  path  thus 
clearly  mapped  out  for  him.  But  the  boy  did  not  take  kindly 
to  the  upholsterer's  shop ;  and  his  maternal  grandfather, 
Louis  de  Cresse,  is  said  to  have  secretly  encouraged  him  in 
his  rebellion.  His  mother  died  when  he  was  ten  years  old, 
and  the  father  lost  no  time  in  providing  the  house  with  a  new 
mistress.  Tradition  states  that  it  was  partly  due  to  the  un- 
genial  influence  of  the  stepmother  that  Louis  de  Cresse  took 
every  opportunity  of  carrying  off  his  grandson  to  the  hotel  de 
Bourgogne,  where  the  king's  tragedians  gave  their  bombastic 
interpretation  of  the  classical  drama.  Here,  the  future  come- 
dian was  inoculated  with  a  passion  for  the  histrionic  art,  and 
when  Moliere,  later  in  life,  became  an  actor,  his  father  shud- 
dered at  the  notion  of  so  vast  a.descent  from  the  level  of  re- 
spectability and  prosperity  to  which  the  family  had  risen. 

The  young  Poquelin  was  brought  up  at  the  College  de 
Clermont,  at  that  time  (1637)  the  best  and  most  popular  school 
in  Paris.  Amongst  its  four  hundred  scholars  were  many 

xix 


XX  PREFATORY    MEMOIR. 

members  of  the  first  families  in  France ;  and  during  this  at- 
tendance on  its  classes,  tradition  mentions  that  he  was  the 
schoolfellow  of  the  Prince  de  Conti,  the  poet  Hesnaut,  the 
rollicking  Chapelle,  Bernier  the  traveller,  and  the  astronomer 
Gassendi.  Poquelin  distinguished  himself  at  the  College,  both 
in  classics  and  in  philosophy ;  and  afterwards,  following  the 
usual  course  of  a  complete  education,  he  proceeded  to  Orleans 
to  attend  a  series  of  lectures  on  civil  law.1 

The  period  of  Moliere's  life  was  the  period  of  France's 
greatest  glory.  Louis  XIII.  died  in  1643,  and  gave  place  to 
Louis  le  Grand— then  only  five  years  old,  but  destined  to  be  a 
patron  of  literature,  science,  and  art ;  and  in  particular,  the 
unvarying,  though  selfish  protector  of  Moliere.  Corneille  had 
written  some  of  his  most  famous  tragedies  before  Moliere 
came  of  age,  La  Fontaine  wrote  his  charming  allegories,  Pas- 
cal and  Bossuet  added  the  sparkle  of  literature  to  the  dignity 
of  religion,  Descartes  and  Gassendi  advanced  the  limits  of 
scientific  knowledge,  Madame  de  Sevigne  combined  the 
masculine  strength  of  her  intellect  with  feminine  grace,  whilst 
Racine  in  his  tragedies,  and  Boileau  in  his  satires,  aimed  at 
raising  and  sustaining  the  literary  taste  of  the  age  of  Louis 
XIV.  Port  Royal,  within  three  leagues  of  Versailles,  made 
its  conscientious  effort  after  moral  and  ethical  reform ;  whilst 
in  Paris  itself,  the  hotel  de  Rambouillet — the  domain  of  three 
generations  of  magnificent  women — gathered  to  its  alcove  the 
wits,  fops,  and  litterateurs  of  the  Metropolis,  until  Moliere,  in 
1659,  gave  a  death-blow  to  the  Precieuses.  The  court  of  Louis 

1  Grimarest  (La  Vie  de  M.  de  Moliere,  1705,  p.  14),  says,  "guand Mo- 
liere eut  acheve  ses  etudes,  ilfut  oblige  a  cause  du  grand  age  de  son  pere, 
cTexercer  sa  charge  pendant  quelque  temps,  et  meme  il  Jit  le  voyage  de 
Narbonneala  suite  de  Louis  XI II"  This  journey  was  in  1642,  at  which 
time  Beffara  (Dissertation  sur  J.  B.  Poquelin-Moliere,  1821,  p.  25),  has 
conclusively  proved  that  the  elder  Poquelin  was  no  more  than  forty-seven 
years  old.  It  is  also  said  that  Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin  studied  at  Orleans 
in  1642.  Others  of  his  biographers  mention  that  Moliere  performed  tem- 
porarily the  duties  of  valet- tapissier  to  Louis  XIII.  The  circumstance 
appears  hardly  probable  ;  but  our  knowledge  is  not  sufficiently  definite 
to  warrant  us  in  describing  it  as  absolutely  impossible. 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  XXI 

the  Grand  was  by  far  more  splendid  than  the  court  of  Louis 
Treize.  The  new  and  gorgeous  palace  at  Versailles  welcomed 
all  who  offered  a  fresh  entertainment  to  the  self-indulgent 
monarch  and  his  crowd  of  pleasure-seeking  courtiers. 
Amongst  such  entertainments  none  was  more  acceptable  to 
the  cultivated  taste  of  the  Parisians  than  the  drama.  Even  in 
the  time  of  Louis  XIII.  the  earlier  plays  of  Corneille  obtained 
the  first  recognition  of  their  merit,  but  before  Moliere  came 
French  comedy  was  meagre  in  the  extreme.  The  court  and 
the  people  were  addicted  to  the  rounded  periods  and  sono- 
rous enunciation  of  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne  ;  and  Torelli's 
Italian  farces  at  the  Petit  Bourbon  were  never  sufficiently 
popular  to  excite  in  the  tragedians  the  envy  and  alarm  after- 
wards aroused  by  Moliere. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1643  a  number  of  young  men 
and  women,  members  of  certain  well  to-do  families  of  Parisian 
bourgeois,  established  in  Paris  a  dramatic  company,  to  which 
they  gave  the  high-sounding  name  of  L Illustre  Theatre* 
One  Madeleine  Bejart,?  the  daughter  of  a  procureur,  was  the 
life  and  soul  of  the  undertaking.  At  the  time  when  she  com- 
menced her  role  of  impressario  and  manageress  she  was 
twenty-seven  years  old,  and  had  been  the  mistress  of  Esprit 
de  Raymond  de  Moirmoiron,  Marquess  of  Modene,  gentil- 
homme  ordinaire  de  Monsieur  (Gaston  duke  of  Orleans), 
brother  of  Louis  XIII.  With  her  were  her  brother  Joseph,4 
and  a  sister  Genevieve,  scarcely  twenty  years  old ;  Clerin, 
Pinel,  Bonenfant,  Madeleine  Malingre,  Catherine  des  Urlis, 
and  Catherine  Bourgeois,  Denis  or  Charles  Beys,  and  Des- 
fontaines,  two  writers  of  comedies,  and  Jean  Baptiste  Poque- 
lin,  who,  on  adopting  the  career  of  an  actor,  no  doubt 
in  deference  to  the  scruples  of  his  family,  assumed  the  sur- 

3  The  biographers  of  Moliere  are  not  agreed  about  the  date  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  Illustre  Theatre.     Moland  and  several  others  say  1645  ;  Soulie, 
in  his  Recherches  sur  Moliere,  1863,  proves  by  official  documents  that  it 
was  either  December  3ist,  1643,  or  at  the  very  beginning  of  1644. 

*  Bejart  is  sometimes  written  *'  Bejard."  Soulie  always  spells  it  thus, 
though  the  members  of  that  family  generally  wrote  it  with  a  /. 

4  Several  commentators  say  he  was  called  Jacques,  Soulie1  says  Joseph. 


XXli  PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

name  of  Moliere.  He  never  explained  the  reason  for  this 
assumption  in  particular ;  but  the  name  of  a  popular  dancer 
and  musician,  attached  to  the  private  chapel  of  the  king,  Louis 
de  M oilier,  was  often  written  Molikre  ;  a  novel-writer,  who  at 
that  time  enjoyed  a  certain  reputation,  was  also  called  Fran- 
cois de  Moliere,  whilst  the  name  itself  was  not  uncommon. 

Moliere  was  on  terms  of  intimate  friendship  with  Madeleine 
Bejart,  and  it  is  natural  that  he  should  at  once  have  obtained 
a  supreme  influence  over  the  company.  After  trying  their 
fortune  successively  on  three  stages — one  near  the  Tour  de 
Nesle,  another  in  the  rue  des  Barres,  a  third  in  the  faubourg 
St.  Germain — and  meeting  with  scant  fortune,  seven  of  them 
quitted  Paris  in  1646,  and  for  nearly  twelve  years  were  en- 
gaged in  a  tour  through  the  provinces.  Before  leaving  Paris 
they  had  run  considerably  into  debt,  and  that  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  partially  supported  by  Gaston,  duke  of 
Orleans.  The  widowed  mother  of  the  Bejarts,  Marie  Herv6, 
became  surety  for  her  children,  and  for  Moliere ;  whilst  the 
other  associates  gave  bonds  to  their  creditors  for  a  consider- 
able amount.  For  the  non-payment  of  one  obligation 
Moliere  was  arrested  and  imprisoned  ;  nor  does  this  seem  to 
have  been  the  only  debt  which  brought  about  the  like  result 
during  the  career  of  the  Illustre  Th'e&tre  in  Paris.  Documents 
have  been  discovered  whfch  show  that  he  was  successively 
arrested  at  the  suit  of  a  number  of  tradesmen  who  had  fur- 
nished or  supplied  the  different  theatres.  Over  and  over 
again  he  was  rescued  by  his  friends  ;  often  at  the  cost  of  his 
entering  into  new  engagements,  bearing  more  or  less  exorbi- 
tant interest.  Fourteen  years  later  we  find  him  discharging 
one  of  those  debts,  with  interest,  expenses,  and  "  loyaux 
cotits  "  which  had  in  the  meantime  accumulated.5 

The  plays  with  which  the  undaunted  company  commenced 
their  histrionic  career  were  of  indifferent  merit.  Amongst 
them  were  the  comedies  of  Scarron,  and  no  doubt,  of  Denis 
Beys,  such  as  f  Hopital  des  fous,  and  of  Desfontaines,  such  a' 
Eurymedon  ou  Fillustre  Pirate,  and  nilustre  Comedien,  ou  le 
Martyre  de  Saint-Genest.  It  would  be  difficult  to  fix  the  exact 

5  Eud.  Soulie,  Recherches  sur  Afolure,  1863,  p.  42. 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  XX111 

date  at  which  Moliere's  earliest  plays  were  produced,  but  it  is 
probable  that  he  began  to  write  for  his  company  as  soon  as  he 
had  enlisted  in  it.  He  seems,  like  Shakespeare,  to  have  in 
part  at  least  adapted  the  plays  of  others  ;  but  in  the  year  1653, 
if  not  earlier,  he  had  produced  F Etourdi  and  in  1656  le  Dcpit 
amoureux. 

In  1648  we  hear  of  the  Bejart-Moliere  company  at  Nantes, 
Limoges,  and  Bordeaux.  From  Bourdeaux  they  went  to  Tou- 
louse ;  and  in  1650  they  were  at  Narbonne  ;  after  which  time 
they  appear  to  have  peregrinated  to  the  south  of  France,  until 
in  1653  we  find  them  at  Lyons,  where  / '  fetourdi,  Moliere's 
earliest  important  venture  in  verse,  is  supposed  to  have  been 
represented  for  the  first  time,  and  where  Berthelot,  generally 
known  as  Duparc,  and  Gros-Rene,  joined  them.  Here  the 
tide  of  their  fortune  was  caught  at  the  flood.  The  whole  town 
flocked  to  hear  them ;  and  during  the  next  two  or  three  years 
they  made  Lyons  their  head-quarters,  from  whence  they 
visited  the  populous  places  in  the  south-east  of  France.  Occa- 
sionally they  were  invited  to  the  castles  of  the  nobility,  as  for 
instance,  in  1653,  to  the  country-seat  of  the  Prince  de  Conti, 
near  Pezenas.  Le  Depit  amoureux  was  produced  in  1656 
at  Beziers,  during  the  meeting  of  the  States  of  Languedoc  in 
that  town.  It  was  at  Grenoble,  in  the  early  spring  of  1658, 
that  Moliere's  friends — among  them  the  painter  Mignard — 
persuaded  him  once  more  to  try  his  fortune  in  Paris.  After  a 
summer  trip  to  Rouen,  he  returned  to  Paris  in  the  autumn, 
where  he  was  introduced  to  Cardinal  Mazarin,  and  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  the  Prince  de  Conti.  Through  the 
latter's  friend,  the  bishop  of  Valence,  he  was  brought  under 
the  notice  of  the  king's  brother,  Philippe,  then  Duke  of  Anjou, 
who  was  at  that  time  but  eighteen  years  of  age,  but  who  had 
already  formed  the  design  of  supporting  a  dramatic  company. 
The  lllustre  Theatre  acted  before  him,  and  pleased  him  ;  he 
invited  Moliere  to  repeat  the  experiment  before  the  court. 
This  was  what  the  company  most  desired ;  the  opportunity 
for  which  they  had  been  conscientiously  labouring  through 
their  twelve  years'  apprenticeship.  They  accepted  the  offer 
with  gratitude. 


xxiv  PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

The  company  was  not  precisely  the  same  on  its  return  to 
Paris  as  it  had  been  in  1646.  There  were  now  four  ladies, 
Madeleine  Bejart,  Genevieve  Bejart,  Duparc  and  Debrie ; 
the  two  brothers  Bejart,  Duparc,  Debrie,  Dufresne,  and 
Croisac,  making,  with  Moliere  himself,  eleven  persons.  It 
may  be  concluded  that  their  tour — or  at  all  events  the  part  of 
it  which  dated  from  Lyons — had  been  very  successful ;  for  we 
find  that  Joseph  Bejart,  who  died  early  in  1659,  left  behind 
him  a  fortune  of  twenty-four  thousand  golden  crowns.  So  at 
least  we  are  told  by  the  physician,  Guy-Patin,  in  a  letter  dated 
May  27,  1659 ;  and  he  adds,  "  Is  it  not  enough  to  make  one 
believe  that  Peru  is  no  longer  in  America,  but  in  Paris  ?" 

It  was  on  the  24th  of  October,  1658 — about  the  same  time,  in 
fact,  as  Sir  William  D'Avenant  was  establishing  his  theatre  in 
London — that  Moliere  and  his  fellow-actors  played  before  Louis 
le  Grand  in  a  theatre  which  had  been  raised  in  the  "  salle  des 
Gardes  "  of  the  Louvre.  The  piece  chosen  was  Corneille's 
Nicomcde,  and  after  that  Moliere's  farce  le  Docteur  amoureux. 
From  that  time  forward  the  Illustre  Theatre  was  called  the 
Comediens  de  Monsieur ;  and  the  company  was  allowed  the 
use  of  the  Petit  Bourbon  on  alternate  days  with  Torelli's 
Italians.  Moliere  paid  Torelli  1500  livres  a-year  for  the  mo- 
nopoly of  four  days  in  the  week.  On  November  3d  r  fctourdi 
was  given,  with  Moliere  in  the  part  of  Mascarille  ;  and  le  De- 
pit  amoureux  followed  in  December.  The  success  of  those 
pieces  was  so  great  that  the  prices  of  admission  had  to  be 
raised  ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  season  each  actor's  share  of  the 
profits  amounted  to  about  800  livres. 

There  were  in  Paris  at  this  time  at  least  six  theatres  ;  one  at 
the  hotel  de  Bourgogne,  one  at  the  Marais,  the  companies  of 
Monsieur,  of  which  Moliere  was  the  manager,  and  of  Made- 
moiselle,6 a  Spanish  company,  and  Torelli's.  The  latter  was 

6  Mademoiselle  was  the  title  given  to  Madlle  de  Montpensier,  the 
daughter  of  Gaston,  duke  of  Orleans,  uncle  of  Louis  XIV.  She  was 
sometimes  called  la  grande  Mademoiselle  to  distinguish  her  from  the 
daughter  of  Philip  of  Orleans,  brother  of  Louis  XIV.  See  also  note  14, 
page  xxxii. 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  XXV 

broken  up  at  the  Easter  of  1659,  when  Moliere  had  the  Petit 
Bourbon  to  himself.  This  theatre  was  108  feet  long,  by  48 
broad  and  high,  the  stage  being  raised  six  feet  above  the  floor. 

The  taste  of  the  age,  before  Moliere's  plays  had  cultivated 
an  appreciation  for  high-class  comedy,  was  centred  in  the 
tragedies  of  Corneille  and  his  school,  or  in  the  grotesque 
farces  of  Scarron  and  Scudery.  Moliere's  own  earliest  efforts 
were  in  the  latter  vein,  and  his  first  encouragement  arose 
from  the  discovery  that  his  intermezzos  were  more  successful 
on  the  stage  than  those  of  his  juvenile  models.  Several  of  his 
best  comedies  were  founded  upon  the  less  ambitious  efforts 
which  had  laid  the  basis  of  his  company's  fame,  such  as  le 
Docteur  amoureux,  les  trots  Docteurs  rivaux,  le  Alaitre  d'ecole, 
Gorgibus  dans  le  sac,  le  Fagoteux,  le  Docteur  pedant,  la  Ca- 
saque,  la  Jealousie  du  Barboidlle,  and  le  Medecin  -volant.  The 
fourth  farce  appears  to  be  the  foundation  of  a  scene  of  les 
Fourberies  de  Scapin,  the  fifth  as  well  as  the  last  that  of  the 
Medecin  malgre  lui,  and  the  eighth  that  of  George  Diindin. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  next  season,  November  18, 
1659,  appeared  les  Precieuses  ridicules.  This  admirably  con- 
ceived satire  upon  the  imitations  of  the  hotel  de  Rambouillet 
was  Moliere's  first  grand  hit  in  the  metropolis.  Paris  was  en- 
tranced by  the  novelty  and  precision  of  the  delineation,  and 
flocked  to  see  it.  The  Precieux  and  Precieuses  themselves 
went  down  to  the  theatre  of  the  Petit  Bourbon,  in  order  to 
criticise  their  critics.  Madame  de  Rambouillet,  the  head  of 
that  famous  coterie,  Madame  de  Grignan,  Chapelle  and  Me- 
nage, Scudery  and  Benserade,  all  were  compelled  to  praise  the 
author  who  ridiculed  them.  Chapelle  sought  out  his  old  school- 
fellow, and  facilitated  his  good  reception  by  the  Parisians.  Me- 
nage, quitting  the  theatre  on  the  first  night,  is  reputed  to  have 
said  to  Chapelle, "  Now,  like  Clovis,  we  must  burn  what  we 
have  adored  and  adore  what  we  have  burnt."  According  to 
tradition,  a  spectator  was  so  overcome  by  admiration  that  he 
called  out  in  the  middle  of  the  piece,  "Courage  Moliere !  Voilti 
la  bonne  comedie  I "  The  king,  who  disliked  the  Rambouillet 
coterie,  but  who  was  at  this  time  at  the  foot  of  the  Pyrenees, 
commanded  that  the  play  should  be  represented  before  him. 


XXVi  PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

Moliere's  success  was  unequivocal,  but  the  incisiveness  of 
his  satire  had  raised  up  many  enemies,  and  the  shrinking 
receipts  of  the  other  theatres  added  many  more.  Those  who 
were  in  authority  during  the  king's  absence  were  induced  to 
forbid  les  Precieuses  ridicules ;  but  the  Parisians  would  not 
consent  to  lose  the  best  comedy  in  the  language.  In  fourteen 
days  the  prohibition  was  removed ;  and  then,  although  the 
prices  of  nearly  the  whole  house  was  raised  by  about  one 
half,  public  curiosity  would  hardly  be  satisfied.7 

As  we  have  already  mentioned,  Joseph  Bejart  died  in  1659, 
ere  he  had  recognized  to  what  a  height  of  fame  and  fortune  the 
company  was  destined  to  reach,  but  having  already  succeeded 
in  amassing  a  competence.  In  1660  another  member  of  the  com- 
pany, Jodelet,  died  ;  and  Duparc  and  his  wife,  who  had  with- 
drawn, again  placed  themselves  at  Moliere's  disposal  fora  time. 

In  the  month  of  May,  1660,  was  produced  Sganarelle  ou  le 
Cocu  Imaginaire,  the  poet  again  taking  the  leading  part.  It  is 
recorded  that  one  Neufvillenaine,  after  a  few  representations 
of  this  one-act  comedy,  had  learned  it  thoroughly  by  heart. 
He  wrote  it  down,  had  it  printed,  and  put  it  up  for  sale  through 
the  bookseller  Ribou.  Moliere  was  advised  to  invoke  the 
law  in  defence  of  his  copyright,  and  he  did  so  successfully.  He 
did  not,  however,  publish  his  play  before  1663,  and  then  it 
was  found  word  for  word  the  same  with  Neufvillenaine's  copy. 

7  In  general  people  have  not  a  correct  idea  about  the  prices  of  admit- 
tance to  the  theatre  in  Moliere's  time.  In  the  theatre  of  the  Palais  Royal, 
where  all  his  pieces  were  played,  with  the  exception  of  the  first  four,  the 
prices  for  the  billets  de  theatre  (tickets  admitting  on  the  stage)  were  five 
livres  ten  sous,  representing  about  eighteen  francs  at  the  present  time ; 
those  for  the  boxes  four  livres ;  those  for  the  amphitheatre  three  livres  ; 
for  the  boxes  on  the  second  tier,  one  livre  ten  sous ;  for  the  upper  boxes, 
one  livre ;  and  for  the  pit,  fifteen  sous.  In  representations  au  double  or 
a  /'  extraordinaire  all  the  prices  are  raised  except  those  of  five  livres  ten 
sous.  During  ordinary  representations,  the  salle  du  Petit-Bourbon  could 
hold  1400  livres,  that  of  the  Palais  Royal  2860  livres ;  the  Comedie  Fran- 
9aise  can  at  present  hold  6000  francs  :  so  that,  considering  tne  relative 
value  of  money,  the  latter  place  cannot  make  more,  though  it  has  room 
for  1650  persons. 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  XXV11 

In  August  1660  Louis  le  Grand  returned  to  Paris  with  his 
young  wife,  and  the  Louvre  being  committed  to  Claude  Per- 
rault  for  renovation  and  re-decoration,  the  theatre  of  the  Petit 
Bourbon  was  doomed.  Moliere's  company  was  transferred  to 
the  Palais  Royal,  the  great  hall  being  capable  of  holding  four 
thousand  spectators.8  Whilst  this  building  was  preparing,  the 
actors  played  several  times  at  the  houses  and  seats  of  the 
nobility,  and  even  in  the  Louvre  itself,  where,  on  the  26th  of 
October,  the  fctourdi  and  the  Precieuses  were  performed  be- 
fore the  king  and  Cardinal  Mazarin,  the  latter  being  carried 
in  on  his  sick-bed.  On  this  occasion  the  company  was  pre- 
sented with  3000  livres.  The  Palais  Royal  was  ready  by  the 
2oth  of  January  1661,  and  opened  with  the  Depit  amourcaux 
and  Sganarelle.  In  honour  of  the  King's  Spanish  spouse  the 
poet  now  wrote  an  inflated  piece  called  Don  Garde  de  Na- 
varre. It  met  with  no  success,  and  was  dropped  after  five 
representations.  A  few  of  the  scenes  were  afterwards  adopted 
in  the  Misanthrope,  Amphitryon,  the  Facheux,  Tartuffe,  and 
the  Femmes  savantes. 

The  office  of  "tapissier  valet  de  chambre,"  which  had  been 
held  by  Moliere's  father,  was  probably  transferred  by  the  latter 
to  his  younger  son,  Jean  Poquelin,  who  exercised  it  during  his 
elder  brother's  absence  from  Paris.  Jean  Poquelin  the  younger 
died  in  1660,  and  Moliere  then  assumed  the  office  to  himself. 
Apart  from  the  emoluments  attached  to  this  position,  the  poet 
no  doubt  found  it  extremely  useful  in  bringing  him  constantly 
into  the  presence  of  the  king,  and  in  providing  him  with 
abundant  opportunities  for  making  the  necessary  studies  of 
the  foibles  of  humanity.  That  he  suffered  somewhat  in  his 
dignity  as  a  poet  we  may  well  imagine ;  but  Moliere's  mind 
was  sufficiently  strong  to  bear  the  rebuffs  of  smaller  men  with 
equanimity.  On  one  occasion  a  fellow-valet  declined  to  assist 
the  comedian  in  making  the  king's  bed.  Bellocq,  a  courtier, 

8  Sauval  in  his  Histoire  et  Recherches  des  Antiquites  de  la  ville  de  Paris, 
1724,  3  vols.,  iii.,  p.  47,  says  the  theatre  of  the  Palais  Royal  could  contain 
4000  persons,  M.  Taschereau  states  1000 ;  the  last  number  appears  to  be 
the  most  probable,  considering  the  money  the  room  could  hold.  See  also 
note  7,  page  xxv. 

2 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

known  by  some  pretty  verses,  heard  this  remark,  and  walking 
towards  them,  said,  "M.  de  Moliere,  permit  me  to  have  the 
honour  of  making  his  majesty's  bed  with  you."  But  the  king 
himself  delighted  to  honour  Moliere  ;  and  the  latter  made  his 
own  position  wherever  he  went.  He  was  recognised  not  only 
as  -an  admirable  actor,  but  as  an  author  of  the  first  rank ; 
from  this  time  forward,  although  he  wrote  a  few  complimen- 
tary or  farcical  pieces  which  were  not  quite  worthy  of  his 
genius,  he  continued  to  throw  off,  with  great  rapidity  and  yet 
with  marvellous  finish,  the  series  of  comedies  on  which  his 
fame  is  securely  built.  Well  might  he  say,  "  I  need  no  longer 
Study  Plautus  and  Terence,  and  filch  the  fragments  of  Me- 
nander;  my  models  henceforth  are  the  world  and  the  living." 

In  June  1661  Moliere  produced  his  Ecole  des  Marts,  and  in 
August,  at  a  grand  entertainment  given  by  Fouquet  to  the 
king  and  queen,  to  the  former  duke  of  Anjou,  who  had  be- 
come duke  of  Orleans,  and  to  the  Princess  Henrietta  of 
England,  a  few  days  before  he  was  replaced  by  Colbert,  les 
Fctcheux  made  another  good  impression.  It  was  during  the 
representation  of  this  play  that  Louis  XIV.  pointed  out  to 
Moliere  his  future  Master  of  the  Hunt,  the  marquis  de  Soye- 
court,  as  a  character  well  worthy  of  his  attention.  In  a  few 
days  the  piece  was  richer  by  a  part ;  though  some  critics 
maintained  that  Moliere  did  not  actually  write  the  principal 
scene  which  sprang  out  of  this  suggestion  of  the  king,  but  that 
he  merely  versified  what  had  been  supplied  to  him  by  another. 

On  the  2oth  February  1662  Moliere  married  Armande-Gre- 
sinde-Claire-Elizabeth  Bejart,  the  youngest  sister  of  Madeleine 
Bejart,  and  at  this  time  aged  about  twenty  years.9  Her  dowry 
was  ten  thousand  livres  ;  her  widow's  portion  four  thousand. 
The  marriage-contract  and  other  documents  relating  to  this 
period  of  Moliere's  life,  which  were  discovered  by  Beffara," 
the  most  able  of  his  earlier  biographers,  show  clearly  that 

9  Some  of  Moliere's  biographers  state  that  Armande  de  Bejart,  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage,  was  not  yet  seventeen  years  old ;   Souli6  gives  the 
very  marriage-contract,  which  proves  that  she  was  twenty  or  thereabout. 
This  contract  is  dated  January  23,  1662. 

10  Dissertation  sur  J.  B.  Poquelln- Moliere,  1821,  p.  7. 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  XXIX 

Armande's  mother,  brother,  and  eldest  sister  were  present  at 
and  consenting  to  the  ceremony — so  that  Grimarest,  and  sev- 
eral of  Moliere's  early  biographers  must  have  been  mistaken 
in  saying  that  Madeleine  was  opposed  to  this  union,  and  that 
it  was  kept  secret  for  some  time.  Genevieve  Bejart,  however, 
the  second  daughter  of  Marie  Herve,  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  present  at  the  marriage;  and  it  is  surmised  by  Soulie 
that  whatever  opposition  existed  may  have  come  from  her, 
and  that  Moliere's  connection  with  her  may  have  dated  back 
to  the  time  at  which  he  first  resolved  to  follow  the  career  of 
an  actor.  Genevieve  married  two  years  after  her  younger 
sister.  The  affection  between  Moliere  and  Armande  had  been 
sincere  from  the  beginning.  Armande  was  brought  up,  if  not 
born,  in  the  company;  and  her  wit  and  manners  seem  to  have 
secured  for  her  in  after-life  the  tenderness  which  the  poet  dis- 
played towards  her  when  a  child.  Moliere's  enemies  have 
coupled  his  name  injuriously  with  those  of  Madeleine  and 
Genevieve  Bejart.  There  is  hardly  any  evidence  in  support 
of  such  suggestions  ;  but  there  is  abundant  proof  of  his  love 
and  respect  for  his  wife.  His  happiness  with  her  was  not, 
however,  as  great  as  he  had  hoped  to  find  it.  Armande  was 
fond  of  pleasure  and  admiration ;  Moliere,  amidst  the  avoca- 
tions and  anxieties  of  his  position,  could  not  always  attend 
upon  her  with  the  devotion  and  ardour  of  a  lover ;  and  she 
sought  and  found  adulation  at  the  hands  of  others.  On  the 
stage,  therefore,  he  acted  Sganarelle  to  the  life,  and  in  his 
most  melancholy  moods  could  not  hold  himself  free  from  the 
twinges  of  but  too  well  founded  jealousy. 

In  the  latter  part  of  1662  the  fccole  des  Femmes  was  per- 
formed. This  play  met  with  some  opposition,  and  was  an- 
swered by  our  author's  La  Critique  de  f  Ecole  des  Femmes, 
which  was  brought  out  the  ist  of  June  1663.  The  comedians 
of  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne  had  long  envied  and  hated  Mo- 
liere, and  they  took  now  the  opportunity  of  attacking  him. 
Boursault  wrote  a  piece  entitled  le  Portrait  du  Pelntre  ou  la 
Contra- critique  de  f  Ecole  des  Femmes.  Moliere  replied  in 
t  Impromptu  de  Versailles.  De  Villiers  and  Montfleury  took  up 
the  cudgels  on  the  other  side,  and  wrote  la  Vengeance  des 


XXX  PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

Marquis  and  I1  Impromptu  de  t  hotel  de  Monde.  At  the  same 
time  Montfleury's  father  was  base  enough  to  accuse  Moliere 
before  the  king  of  having  married  his  own  daughter ;  the  in- 
sinuation being  that  Armande  was  the  child  of  Madeleine  Be- 
jart.  The  court  did  not  listen  to  this  tale,  and  presently  after 
the  king  and  Henrietta,  duchess  of  Orleans,  stood  sponsors  for 
Moliere's  eldest  son,  who  was  born  on  the  ipth  January,  i664.n 
Moliere  was  satisfied  with  his  triumph,  and  soon  after  stopped 
the  sale  of  the  Impromptu  de  Versailles. 

Moliere  regarded  himself  henceforth  as  the  court  dramatist 
par  excellence,  and  he  was  anxious  to  show  by  every  means 
in  his  power  the  gratitude  aroused  in  him  by  the  king's  favour. 
In  January  1664  he  wrote,  for  a  court  high  festival,  /<?  Mar- 
riage force  a  one-act  piece  with  eight  entrees  de  ballet™  and  in 
which  Sganarelle  re-appears ;  who  had  figured  in  several  pre- 
vious plays.  Louis  himself  danced  in  one  of  the  acts.  In  May 
of  the  same  year  the  Grand  Monarque  gave  a  grand  festival 
in  honour  of  Louise  de  Valliere,  lasting  over  a  week,  to  which 
Moliere  contributed  the  Princesse  d'£lide,  a  five-act  piece, 
strung  together  in  such  haste  that  only  the  first  act  was  in 
verse,  and — a  far  more  ambitious  flight  of  the  Muse,  which 
had  no  doubt  been  for  some  time  past  in  preparation — the 
first  three  acts  of  Tartuffe. 

Tartuffe  was  a  protest  and  satire  against  the  ecclesiastical 
intolerance  and  religious  hypocrisy  which  were  amongst  the 
characteristics  of  the  day.  A  revival  of  orthodoxy  had  fol- 
lowed upon  the  restless  period  of  the  Ligue  and  the  Fronde  ; 
and  this  reaction  had  brought  in  its  train  more  of  the  outward 
show  than  of  the  reality  of  religion.  Moliere  hated  cant  with 

11  Eud.  Soulie',  Recherches  sur  Moliere,  p.  59.     "  This  child  died  in  the 
same  year," 

12  The  ballets  de  cour,  according  to  M.  Bazin's  Notes  historiques  sur  la. 
vie  de  Moliere,  1851,  were  composed  of  entrees,  vers,  and  recits.     The 
entrees  were  represented  by  persons  who  said  nothing,  but  whose  gestures, 
dancing,  and  dress  sufficiently  showed  what  the  author  intended  to  repre- 
sent ;  this  was,  moreover,  elucidated  by  the  vers,  which  were  not  spoken 
on  the  stage,  but  only  printed  in  the  libretto.     The  recits  were  verses 
spoken,  or  couplets  sung,  generally  by  professional  actors  or  actresses. 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  xxxi 

an  unfeigned  hatred  ;  and  besides,  he  had  a  private  quarrel 
of  his  own  against  the  ecclesiastics,  who  had  excommunicated 
himself  and  his  brother  actors.  In  Tartuffe  he  hit  the  priests 
and  the  hypocrites  very  hard,  and  multiplied  the  number  of 
his  enemies.  The  play  seems  to  have  been  acted  tentatively 
from  the  first,  and  then  only  before  the  king,  or  certain  select 
audiences  at  Versailles,  Villers-Cotterets,  and  Raincy.  Paris 
did  not  see  it  at  the  Palais  Royal  for  years  after ;  but  this  par- 
tial publicity  was  sufficient  to  secure  for  it  the  abhorrence  of 
those  who  regarded  themselves  as  the  guardians  of  popular 
morality  and  orthodoxy.  Their  objection  to  Tartuffe,  and  to 
le  Festin  de  Pierre,  which  was  first  acted  in  February  1665,  and 
which  treated  hypocrisy  in  the  like  ungentle  fashion,  was 
much  akin  to  those  raised  against  Paul  by  the  coppersmiths 
of  Ephesus.  But  it  was  successful ;  and  both  pieces  were 
interdicted,  after  the  last-named  had  been  represented  for  fif- 
teen days  before  crowded  houses.  Pierre  Roules,  cure  of  St.  Bar- 
thelemy,  and  another  clergyman,  de  Rochemont,1*  wrote  trea- 
tises to  counteract  the  evil  effects  of  Moliere's  works ;  and  the 
enemies  of  the  latter  produced  a  disreputable  pasquinade  in  his 
name,  wherein  he  was  made  to  cast  shameful  reflections  against 
the  priests.  He  subsequently  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  expose 
this  trick  in  the  fifth  act  of  the  Misanthrope.  The  king  hardly 
dared  to  withstand  the  Church  in  the  then  existing  condition 
of  the  public  mind.  Unwilling  to  remove  the  prohibition  by 
his  royal  fiat,  he  paid  Moliere  the  compliment  of  permitting 
his  troupe  to  be  styled  "  Comediens  du  Roi,"  which  title  they 
held  from  this  time  forward :  and  they  were  subsidized  by  a 
yearly  pension  of  seven  thousand  livres. 

An  intermittent  source  of  trouble  and  anxiety  to  Moliere  was 
found  in  the  ingratitude  of  his  company,  who  now  and  again 
forgot  that  he  had  made  the  fortunes  of  every  one  of  them. 
When  a  play  did  not  draw,  or  when  the  public  found  a  mo- 

13  In  the  re-impression  of  Observations  sur  le  Festin  de  Pierre  par  de 
Rochemont  et  Reponses  aux  Observations,  edited  by  the  bibliophile  Jacob, 
Geneve,  1869,  it  is  stated,  p.  n,  that  though  de  Rochemont  may  have 
been  an  advocate,  as  many  of  Moliere's  biographers  had  said,  he  was  a 
clergyman  at  the  time  he  wrote  his  Observations. 


XXXli  PREFATORY    MEMOIR. 

mentary  attraction  elsewhere,  they  seem  generally  to  have 
laid  the  blame  upon  their  manager.  Such  was  the  case  when 
"Scaramouch"  (Torelli),  the  manager  of  the  Italian  farce- 
company,  who  had  earned  enough  to  buy  an  estate  at  Florence 
of  about  ten  thousand  livres  per  annum,  being  driven  from 
his  retirement  by  his  wife  and  children,  returned  to  Paris  and 
resumed  his  career  as  an  actor.  The  public  had  not  lost  their 
appreciation  of  the  Italian  harlequinades, — the  receipts  of 
Moliere's  theatre  began  to  fall  off,  and  his  company — espe- 
cially one  of  the  Bejarts  and  Maddle.14  Duparc — pretended 
that  the  cause  of  the  failure  originated  with  him. 

Moliere's  path  was  by  no  means  an  easy  one  to  tread  ;  the 
following  anecdote  may  serve  as  another  illustration  of  the 
fact.  The  king's  body  guards,  and  other  household  troops, 
had  formerly  been  allowed  to  see  the  play  for  nothing,  and 
Moliere,  who  was  doubtless  more  troubled  by  the  abuse  of 
"paper"  than  are  the  managers  of  to-day,  was  urged  by  his 
company  to  obtain  the  removal  of  this  privilege  from  the  king. 
His  request  was  granted  ;  but  the  change  gave  great  umbrage 
to  the  soldiers.  They  came  down  to  the  house  in  a  body, 
killed  the  door-keeper,  and  uttered  loud  threats  against  the 
actors.  On  the  next  day  the  king  had  them  drawn  up  on 
parade,  and  sent  for  Moliere  to  harangue  them.  This  he  did 
with  so  much  tact  and  good  humour,  and  he  gave  them  such 
excellent  reasons  why  they  should  pay  for  their  seats  like 
gentlemen,  and  leave  the  free  admissions  for  such  as  could 
not  afford  a  trifle,  that  they  made  no  further  difficulty  in  the 
matter. 

Like  many  comic  actors,  Moliere  was  often  melancholy, 
morose,  and  timid  off  the  stage  ;  and  the  lack  of  sympathy 
from  the  young  wife  he  loved  so  much  tended  to  aggravate 
those  symptoms.  He  was,  moreover,  afflicted  by  a  spasmodic 
cough  and  pulmonary  attacks,  very  possibly  due  to  frequent 

UA11  ladies  who  were  not  of  noble  birth,  or  those  of  inferior  nobility, 
were  in  Moliere's  time  called  Mademoiselle,  the  others  Madame  ;  never- 
theless the  expressions  une  demoiselle,  une  femme  demoiselle,  were  often 
used  for  a  noble-born  married  or  unmarried  lady.  For  the  use  of  Made- 
moiselle as  a  special  name  see  note  6,  page  xxiv. 


PREFATORY    MEMOIR.  XXXlli 

exposures  during  his  provincial  tours,  and  compelled  to  live  a 
most  abstemious  life.  He  had  taken  a  house  at  Auteuil,  where 
he  passed  all  the  time  that  could  be  spared  from  his  arduous 
duties ;  hither  his  friends  were  wont  to  come  and  visit  him, 
trying,  with  but  little  success,  to  rouse  him  from  his  character- 
istic melancholy.  A  very  touching  story  is  related  of  one  of 
these  visits,  which  we  may  quote  as  an  instance  of  the  genuine 
friendship  which  existed  between  the  poet  and  his  friends, 
and  of  the  essentially  dramatic  constitution  of  Moliere's  mind. 
Chapelle,  La  Fontaine,  Lulli,  director  of  the  Royal  Academy 
of  Music,  Boileau,  Mignard  the  artist,  and  Corneille,  came  one 
evening  to  Auteuil  to  make  merry  with  their  friend.  Moliere 
was  obliged  to  excuse  himself  on  the  ground  of  ill-health,  but 
he  requested  Chapelle  to  do  the  honours  of  his  house.  The 
guests  sat  down,  and  presently,  warmed  with  wine,  they  fell  to 
talking  of  religion,  futurity,  the  vanity  of  human  life,  and  such 
other  lofty  and  inexhaustible  topics  as  are  wont  to  occupy  the 
vinous  moments  of  intellectual  men.  Chapelle  led  the  con- 
versation, and  indulged  in  a  long  tirade  against  the  folly  of 
most  things  counted  wise ;  at  length  one  of  them  suggested 
the  idea  of  suicide,  and  proposed  that  they  should  all  go  and 
drown  themselves  in  the  river.  This  splendid  notion  was  re- 
ceived with  acclamation  ;  the  tipsy  philosophers  hurri«d  down 
to  the  bank,  and  seized  upon  a  boat  in  order  to  get  into  the 
middle  of  the  stream.  Meanwhile  Baron,  Moliere's  favourite 
pupil,15  who  lived  in  the  house  with  him,  and  who  had  been 
present  at  the  debauch,  aroused  his  master,  and  sent  off  the 
servants  in  quest  of  the  would-be  suicides.  The  latter  were 
already  in  the  water  when  assistance  arrived,  and  they  were 
pulled  out ;  but,  resenting  such  an  impertinence,  they  drew 
their  swords  on  their  deliverers,  and  pursued  them  to  Moliere's 
house.  The  poet  displayed  complete  presence  of  mind,  and 
pretended  to  approve  of  the  plan  which  had  been  formed  ;  but 
he  professed  to  be  much  annoyed  that  they  should  have 
thought  of  drowning  themselves  without  him.  They  admitted 
their  error,  and  invited  him  to  come  back  with  them  and  finish 

15  Subsequently  the  most  finished  actor  in  France. 


XXXIV  PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

the  business.  "Nay,"  said  Moliere,  "that  would  be  very 
clumsy.  So  glorious  a  deed  should  not  be  done  at  night,  and 
in  darkness.  Early  to-morrow,  when  we  have  all  slept  well, 
we  will  go,  fasting  and  in  public,  and  throw  ourselves  in."  To 
this  all  assented,  and  Chapelle  proposed  that  in  the  meantime 
they  should  finish  the  wine  that  had  been  left.  It  need  not  be 
added  that  the  next  day  found  them  in  a  different  mood.16 

In  September,  1665,  I 'Amour  Medecin  was  written,  studied, 
and  rehearsed  within  a  period  of  five  days,  and  acted  first  at 
Versailles,  afterwards  in  Paris.  In  December  the  Palais  Royal 
had  to  be  closed  on  account  of  Moliere's  serious  illness.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  but  he  fought  against  his  weak- 
ness valiantly.  The  death  of  Anne  of  Austria  delayed  the  re- 
opening of  the  theatre  until  June,  1666,  in  which  month  Moliere 
produced  his  Misanthrope,  a  play  which  has  been  ranked  as 
high  in  comedy  as  Athalie  is  ranked  in  French  tragedy.  The 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  written  were  such  as  might 
almost  warrant  us  in  calling  it  a  tragedy  itself ;  for  the  great 
satirist,  who  had  spent  his  life  in  copying  the  eccentricities  of 
others,  had  now  employed  the  season  of  his  illness  and  con- 
valescence to  commit  to  paper  a  drama  in  which  he  was 
himself  the  principal  actor.  The  misanthrope,  Alceste,  loves 
the  coquette  Celimene  almost  against  his  will ;  and  we  can 
imagine  the  feelings  with  which  Moliere  himself  took  the 
role  of  Alceste  to  his  wife's  Celimene.  The  general  sarcasm 
of  the  piece  is  very  bitter;  but  Paris  heard  it  eagerly  for  close 
upon  a  month.  It  was  succeeded  by  the  Medecin  malgre  lui  ; 
and  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  year  followed  the  charming 
operetta  of  le  Sicilien  ou  r Amour  peintre.  Shortly  after  the 
appearance  of  this  piece  the  author  was  again  confined  to  his 
bed  for  upwards  of  two  months. 

Philip  IV.  of  Spain  died  in  September  1665,  and  Louis  XIV. 
claimed  Brabant,  Flanders,  Hainault,  and  Limburg  in  the  right 
of  his  wife.  He  went  in  the  spring  of  1667  with  a  corps 

16  Boileau  repeated  this  story  to  Racine,  whose  son  has  recorded  it  in 
his  Memoirs.  A  sceptic  might  perhaps  suspect  that  the  attempted  suicide 
was  only  a  trick  to  get  Moliere  to  join  in  the  revets. 


PREFATORY    MEMOIR.  XXXV 

d'armee  to  take  possession  of  this  territory,  and  with  him  went 
the  Queen,  Madame  de  Montcspan,  Mademoiselle  de  la  Val- 
liere,  and  the  whole  court.  During  their  absence  Moliere  re- 
lying on  a  previously  implied  permission  of  the  King,  once 
more  produced  Tartujfe,  the  name  of  which  he  had  changed 
to  / '  Imposteur.  It  was  immediately  prohibited  by  the  Presi- 
dent de  Lamoignon,  and  Moliere  sent  off  two  of  his  company 
to  ask  for  the  King's  sanction.  The  latter  gave  an  evasive 
reply,  undertaking  to  inquire  into  the  matter  on  his  return. 
Louis  returned  on  the  yth  of  September,  but  his  promise  was 
not  at  once  redeemed.  In  January  1668,  Amphitryon  appeared, 
and  a  little  later,  in  the  course  of  a  festival  given  in  the  honour 
of  Conde's  victories  in  Franche-Comte,  George  Dandin.  In 
the  autumn  of  this  year  /*  Avare  was  first  acted,  but  it  was 
coldly  received  by  the  public.  It  was  not  until  February  1669 
that  Tartujfe  finally  made  its  appearance  before  a  Parisian 
audience,  with  the  full  permission  and  protection  of  the  king. 
The  objections  raised  against  it  were  as  strong  as  ever,  but 
Louis  was  less  anxious  than  formerly  to  please  the  ecclesiastics. 
The  play  had  an  immense  success,  and  appears  to  have  run 
for  several  months.  In  the  same  month  (February)  died 
Moliere's  father,  and  in  the  papers  he  left  behind  him  there  is 
a  bitter  allusion  to  "Monsieur  Moliere."  In  October  of  the 
same  year  Moliere  played  the  title-role  in  his  new  farce  Mon- 
sieur de  Pourceaugnac.  In  reference  to  this  bright  play 
Diderot  has  remarked  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  there  are  many  more  men  capable  of  writing  Pourceaugnac 
than  the  Misanthrope ;  and  the  judgment  of  later  critics  has 
confirmed  the  observation. 

As  his  infirmities  increased  upon  him,  and  his  short  life 
drew  to  a  close,  Moliere's  pen  was  more  fruitful  than  ever.  In 
the  year  1670  he  produced  in  addition  to  a  comedy-ballet,  les 
Amants  magnifiques,  an  excellent  comedy,  le  Bourgeois  Gen- 
tilhomme,  in  which  he  played  the  title-role.  The  same  year 
died  Marie  Herve,  the  mother  of  the  Bejarts.  Baron  took  this 
year  also  the  place  of  Louis  B6jart.  In  the  following  year 
(1671)  were  brought  out  Psyche,  a  tragedie-ballet,  of  which  he 
only  wrote  a  part,  and  two  farces,  les  Fourberies  de  StQtpin  and 


XXXvi  PREFATORY   MEMOIR. 

la  Comtesse  d' Escarbagnas.  In  1672  was  played  a  satire- 
comedy  in  the  highest  mood  of  his  trenchant  mind,  les  Femmes 
savantes,  a  sort  of  sequel  to  les  Precieuses  ridicules,  though 
with  more  general  application. 

In  1671  his  friends  succeeded  in  bringing  about  a  better 
understanding  between  Moliere  and  his  wife,  who  for  some 
time  past  had  rarely  met  except  on  the  stage.  One  cause  of 
disagreement  between  them  had  been  the  absurd  jealousy  with 
which  Armande  regarded  the  affection  of  her  husband  for  the 
young  actor,  Baron,  whom  on  one  occasion  she  drove  from  the 
house  by  her  petulant  reproaches.  The  reconciliation  extended 
to  this  faithful  pupil  of  the  great  comedian,  and  the  last  scenes 
of  Moliere's  life  were  brightened  by  the  affectionate  devotion 
of  the  two  people  whom  he  loved  best.  The  year  1672  was 
nevertheless  a  sad  one ;  and  as  it  were  by  an  omen  of  his  ap- 
proaching end,  more  than  one  of  the  ties  which  bound  him 
with  his  earlier  career  were  broken.  Madeleine  Bejart,  the 
companion  of  his  life-long  labours,  died  in  February,  leaving 
many  legacies  to  religious  foundations,  but  the  bulk  of  her 
property  to  her  favourite  sister  Armande,  with  reversion  to 
Madeleine  Esprit,  Moliere's  only  surviving  child,  whose  sec- 
ond son  had  died  a  few  days  previously.  Of  the  famous  com- 
pany which  in  1646  had  quited  Paris  on  its  twelve  years'  pro- 
vincial tour,  only  two  now  remained — the  poet  and  Genevieve 
Bejart. 

Bowed  down  by  sorrow  and  pain,  weakened  by  a  racking 
cough  which  never  left  him  a  day's  peace,  he  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  spare  himself.  Within  a  few  months  of  his 
death  he  wrote  his  Malade  fmagtnaire,  a  happy  conception, 
which  must  have  done  much  to  rob  his  bodily  sufferings  of 
their  sting.  On  the  iyth  of  February  1673,  in  spite  of  the  dis- 
suasion of  his  wife  and  Baron,  he  played  the  part  of  Argan, 
and  acted  the  piece  through,  though  he  was  very  ill.  In  the 
evening  of  the  same  day,  in  his  house  in  the  Rue  Richelieu,  he 
burst  a  blood-vessel.  Two  nuns  who  had  for  some  time  past 
been  living  in  the  house  stood  by  his  bed,  and  to  them  he 
expressed  his  complete  resignation  to  the  will  of  God.  They 
sent  in  succession  for  two  priests  to  administer  the  last  conso- 


PREFATORY   MEMOIR.  XXXV11 

lations  of  religion,  but  both  refused  to  come.  Before  a  third 
could  be  found,  Moliere  was  dead.  He  was  buried  four  days 
later,  almost  without  the  rites  of  religion,  in  a  church-yard 
adjoining  the  Rue  Montmartre. 

The  daughter  of  the  actor  Du  Croisy,  Madame  Poisson,  her- 
self an  actress,  and  one  who  had  seen  Moliere,  when  she  was 
very  young,  has  left  us  an  exact  description  of  his  personal 
appearance,  which  she  wrote  in  the  Mercure  de  France  for 
May,  1740  .  "He  was  neither  too  stout  nor  too  thin  ;  his  stature 
was  rather  tall  than  short ;  his  carriage  was  noble ;  and  he 
had  a  remarkable  good  leg.  He  walked  measuredly ;  had  a 
very  serious  air  ;  a  large  nose,  an  ample  mouth,  with  full  lips  ; 
brown  complexion,  and  eyebrows  black  and  thick  ;  while  the 
varied  motion  he  gave  to  these  latter  rendered  his  physiognomy 
extremely  comic."17 

17  In  that  monument  of  accuracy  and  erudition,  Dictionaire  critique  de 
Biographic  et  d' Histoire,  by  A.  Jal,  Paris,  1872,  it  is  stated  in  the  article 
"  Poisson,"  p.  983,  that  this  actress  died  at  St.  Germain  en  Laye,  the  lath 
of  December,  1756,  at  the  age  of  ninety.  Moliere  died  in  1673 ;  there- 
fore, if  she  saw  him  even  in  1672,  she  must  have  been  six  years  old,  a 
rather  early  age  to  receive  impressions  of  personal  appearance.  Moland, 
in  his  life  of  Moliere,  states  that  she  was  fifteen  years  old  at  our  author's 
death,  but  Jal  is  always  exact.  I  suppose  Madame  Poisson,  who  in  1740, 
was  seventy-four  years  old,  gave  as  her  own  personal  impression  what 
she  could  only  have  known  by  hearsay. 


L'ETOURDI,  OU  LES  CONTRETEMPS. 

COMEDIE. 


THE  BLUNDERER:  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS. 

A    COMEDY    IN    FIVE    ACTS. 

(THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 
I653-   (?) 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE. 


77ie  Blunderer  is  generally  believed  to  have  been  first  acted  at  Lyons  in 
1653,  whilst  Moliere  and  his  troupe  were  in  the  provinces.  In  the  month 
of  November  1658  it  was  played  for  the  first  time  in  Paris,  where  it  ob- 
tained a  great  and  well-deserved  success.  It  is  chiefly  based  on  an  Ital- 
ian comedy,  written  by  Nicolo  Barbieri,  known  as  Beltrame,  and  called 
L'Inawertito,  from  which  the  character  of  Mascarille,  the  servant,  is 
taken,  but  differs  in  the  ending,  which  is  superior  in  the  Italian  play.  An 
imitation  of  the  classical  boasting  soldier,  Captain  Bellorofonte,  Marteli. 
one,  and  a  great  number  of  concetti,  have  also  not  been  copied  by  Mo- 
liere. The  fourth  scene  of  the  fourth  act  of  I'Etourdi  contains  some 
passages  taken  from  the  Angelica,  a  comedy  by  Fabritio  de  Fornans,  a 
Neapolitan,  who  calls  himself  on  the  title-page  of  his  play  "  il  Capitano 
Coccodrillo,  comico  confidente.1'  A  few  remarks  are  borrowed  from  la. 
Emilia,  a  comedy  by  Luigi  Grotto,  whilst  here  and  there  we  find  a  rem- 
iniscence from  Plautus,  and  one  scene,  possibly  suggested  by  the  six- 
teenth of  the  Conies  et  Discours  d Eutrapel,  written  by  Noel  du  Fail, 
Lord  of  la  He>issaye.  Some  of  the  scenes  remind  us  of  passages  in  sev- 
eral Italian  Commedia.  deC  arte  between  Arlecchino  and  Pantaleone,  the 
personifications  of  impudence  and  ingenuity,  as  opposed  to  meekness  and 
stupidity ;  they  rouse  the  hilarity  of  the  spectators,  who  laugh  at  the 
ready  invention  of  the  knave,  as  well  as  at  the  gullibility  of  the  old  man. 
Before  this  comedy  appeared  the  French  stage  was  chiefly  filled  with  plays 
full  of  intrigue,  but  with  scarcely  any  attempt  to  delineate  character  or 
manners.  In  this  piece  the  plot  is  carried  on,  partly  in  imitation  of  the 
Spanish  taste,  by  a  servant,  Mascarille,  who  is  the  first  original  personage 
Moliere  has  created ;  he  is  not  a  mere  imitation  of  the  valets  of  the  Ital- 
ian or  classical  comedy  ;  he  has  not  the  coarseness  and  base  feelings  of 
the  servants  of  his  contemporaries,  but  he  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Villon, 
a  free  and  easy  fellow,  not  over-nice  in  the  choice  or  execution  of  his 
plans,  but  inventing  new  ones  after  each  failure,  simply  to  keep  in  his 
hand ;  not  too  valiant,  except  perhaps  when  in  his  cups,  rather  jovial  and 
chaffy,  making  fun  of  himself  and  everybody  else  besides,  no  respecter  of 
persons  or  things,  and  doomed  probably  not  to  die  in  his  bed.  Moliere 
must  have  encountered  many  such  a  man  whilst  the  wars  of  the  Fronde 
were  raging,  during  his  perigrinations  in  the  provinces.  Even  at  the 
present  time,  a  Mascarille  is  no  impossibility ;  for,  "  like  master  like 
man."  There  are  also  in  The  Blunderer  too  many  incidents,  which  take 

3 


4  THE  BLUNDERER; 

place  successively,  without  necessarily  arising  one  from  another.  Some 
of  the  characters  are  not  distinctly  brought  out,  the  style  has  often  been 
found  fault  with,  by  Voltaire  and  other  competent  judges,1  but  these  de- 
fects are  partly  covered  by  a  variety  and  vivacity  which  are  only  fully  dis- 
played when  heard  on  the  stage. 

In  the  third  volume  of  the  "  Select  Comedies  of  M.  de  Moliere,  London, 
1732,"  The  Blunderer  is  dedicated  to  the  Right  Honorable  Philip,  Earl 
of  Chesterfield,  in  the  following  words  : — 

MY  LORD, — The  translation  of  L'  Etourdi,  which,  in  company  with  the 
original,  throws  itself  at  your  lordship's  feet,  is  a  part  of  a  design  form'd 
by  some  gentlemen,  of  exhibiting  to  the  public  a  Select  Collection  of  Mo- 
liere 's  Plays,  in  French  and  English.  This  author,  my  lord,  was  truly  a 
genius,  caress'd  by  the  greatest  men  of  his  own  time,  and  honour'd  with 
the  patronage  of  princes.  When  the  translator,  therefore,  of  this  piece 
was  to  introduce  him  in  an  English  dress,  in  justice  he  owed  him  an 
English  patron,  and  was  readily  determined  to  your  lordship,  whom  all 
the  world  allows  to  be  a  genius  of  the  first  rank.  But  he  is  too  sensible 
of  the  beauties  of  his  author,  and  the  refined  taste  your  lordship  is  univer- 
sally known  to  have  in  polite  literature,  to  plead  anything  but  your  can- 
dour and  goodness,  for  your  acceptance  of  this  performance.  He 
persuades  himself  that  your  lordship,  who  best  knows  how  difficult  it  is  to 
speak  like  Moliere,  even  when  we  have  his  sentiments  to  inspire  us,  will 
be  readiest  to  forgive  the  imperfections  of  this  attempt.  He  is  the  rather 
encouraged,  my  lord,  to  hope  for  a  candid  reception  from  your  lord- 
ship, on  account  of  the  usefulness  of  this  design,  which  he  flatters 
himself  will  have  your  approbation.  'Tis  to  spirit  greater  numbers  of 
our  countrymen  to  read  this  author,  who  wou'd  otherwise  not  have  at- 
tempted it,  or,  being  foil'd  in  their  attempts,  wou'd  throw  him  by  in  des- 
pair. And  however  generally  the  French  language  may  be  read,  or 
spoke  in  England,  there  will  be  still  very  great  numbers,  even  of  those 
who  are  said  to  understand  French,  who,  to  master  this  comic  writer,  will 
want  the  help  of  a  translation  ;  and  glad  wou'd  the  publishers  of  this 
work  be  to  guide  the  feebler  steps  of  some  such  persons,  not  only  till  they 
should  want  no  translation,  but  till  some  of  them  should  be  able  to  make 
a  much  better  than  the  present.  The  great  advantage  of  understanding 
Moliere  your  Lordship  best  knows.  What  is  it,  but  almost  to  understand 
mankind  ?  He  has  shown  such  a  compass  of  knowledge  in  human  nature, 
as  scarce  to  leave  it  in  the  power  of  succeeding  writers  in  comedy  to  be 
originals  ;  whence  it  has,  in  fact,  appear'd,  that  they  who,  since  his  time, 
have  most  excelled  in  the  Comic  way,  have  copied  Moliere,  and  therein 
were  sure  of  copying  nature.  In  this  author,  my  lord,  our  youth  will  find 
the  strongest  sense,  the  purest  moral,  and  the  keenest  satyr,  accompany'd 
with  the  utmost  politeness  ;  so  that  our  countrymen  may  take  a  French 
polish,  without  danger  of  commencing  fops  and  apes,  as  they  sometimes 
do  by  an  affectation  of  the  dress  and  manners  of  that  people  ;  for  no  man 


1  Victor  Hugo  appears  to  be  of  another  opinion.  M.  Paul  Stapfer,  in  his  les  Art- 
istes juges  et  parties  (2"  Causerie,  the  Grammarian  of  Hauteville  House,  p.  55), 
states  : — "  the  opinion  of  Victor  Hugo  about  Moliere  is  very  peculiar.  According 
to  him,  the  best  written  of  all  the  plays  of  our  great  comic  author  is  his  first  work, 
C Etourdi.  It  possesses  a  brilliancy  and  freshness  of  style  which  still  shine  in  le 
Depit  amoureux,  but  which  gradually  fade,  because  Moliere,  yielding  unfortunately 
to  other  inspirations  than  his  own,  enters  more  and  more  upon  a  new  way." 


OR,  THE    COUNTERPLOTS.  5 

has  better  pourtray'd,  or  in  a  finer  manner  expos'd  fopperies  of  all  kinds, 
than  this  our  author  hath,  in  one  or  other  of  his  pieces.  And  now,  'tis 
not  doubted,  my  lord,  but  your  lordship  is  under  some  apprehensions, 
and  the  reader  under  some  expectation,  that  the  translator  should  at- 
tempt your  character,  in  right  of  a  dedicator,  as  a  refin'd  wit,  and  con- 
summate statesman.  But,  my  lord,  speaking  the  truth  to  a  person  of 
your  lordship's  accomplishments,  wou'd  have  the  appearance  of  flattery, 
especially  to  those  who  have  not  the  honour  of  knowing  you  ;  and  those 
who  have,  conceive  greater  ideas  of  you  than  the  translator  will  pretend 
to  express.  Permit  him,  then,  my  lord,  to  crave  your  lordship's  accep- 
tance of  this  piece,  which  appears  to  you  with  a  fair  and  correct  copy  of 
the  original ;  but  with  a  translation  which  can  be  of  no  manner  of  conse- 
quence to  your  lordship,  only  as  it  may  be  of  consequence  to  those  who 
would  understand  Moliere  if  they  could.  Your  lordship's  countenance  to 
recommend  it  to  such  will  infinitely  oblige,  my  lord,  your  lordship's  most 
devoted,  and  most  obedient,  humble  servant,  THE  TRANSLATOR." 

To  recommend  to  Lord  Chesterfield  an  author  on  account  of  ''the 
purest  moral,"  or  because  ''  no  man  has  ...  in  a  finer  manner  exposed 
fopperies  of  all  kinds,"  appears  to  us  now  a  bitter  piece  of  satire  ;  it  may 
however,  be  doubted  if  it  seemed  so  to  his  contemporaries.2 

Dryden  has  imitated  The  Blunderer  in  Sir  Martin  Mar-all ;  or  the 
Feigned  Innocence,  first  translated  by  William  Cavendish,  Duke  of  New- 
castle, and  afterwards  adapted  for  the  stage  by  "  glorious  John.  '  It  must 
have  been  very  successful,  for  it  ran  no  less  than  thirty-three  nights,  and 
was  four  times  acted  at  court.  It  was  performed  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields 
by  the  Duke  of  York's  servants,  probably  at  the  desire  of  the  Duke  of 
Newcastle,  as  Dryden  was  engaged  to  write  for  the  King's  Company. 
It  seems  to  have  been  acted  in  1667,  and  was  published,  without  the  au- 
thor's name,  in  1668.  But  it  cannot  be  fairly  called  a  translation,  for 
Dryden  has  made  several  alterations,  generally  not  for  the  better,  and 
changed  double  entendres  into  single  ones.  The  heroine  in  the  English 
play,  Mrs.  Millisent,  (Celia),  marries  the  roguish  servant,  Warner  (Mas- 
carille),  who  takes  all  his  master's  blunders  upon  himself,  is  bribed  by 
nearly  everybody,  pockets  insults  and  money  with  the  same  equanimity, 
and  when  married,  is  at  last  proved  a  gentleman,  by  the  disgusting  Lord 
Dartmouth,  who  "cannot  refuse  to  own  him  for  my  (his)  kinsman." 
With  a  fine  stroke  of  irony  Millisent's  father  becomes  reconciled  to  his 
daughter  having  married  a  serving-man  as  soon  as  he  hears  that  the  latter 
has  an  estate  of  eight  hundred  a  year.  Sir  Martin  Mar-all  is  far  more 
conceited  and  foolish  than  Lelio ;  Trufaldin  becomes  Mr.  Moody,  a 
swashbuckler  ;  a  compound  of  Leander  and  Andres,  Sir  John  Swallow, 
a  Kentish  knight ;  whilst  of  the  filthy  characters  of  Lord  Dartmouth, 
Lady  Dupe,  Mrs.  Christian,  and  Mrs.  Preparation,  no  counterparts  are 
found  in  Moliere's  play.  But  the  scene  in  which  Warner  plays  the  lute, 
whilst  his  master  pretends  to  do  so,  and  which  is  at  last  discovered  by 
Sir  Martin  continuing  to  play  after  the  servant  has  finished,  is  very  clev- 

1  Lord  Chesterfield  appeared  not  so  black  to  those  who  lived  in  his  own  time  as 
he  does  to  us,  for  Bishop  Warburton  dedicated  to  him  his  Necessity  and  Equity  of 
an  Established  Religion  and  a  Test-Law  Demonstrated,  and  says  in  his  preface  : 
"  It  is  an  uncommon  happiness  when  an  honest  man  can  congratulate  a  patriot  on 
his  becoming  minister,  and  expresses  the  hope,  that  "  the  temper  of  the  times  will 
suffer  your  Lordship  to  be  instrumental  in  saving  your  country  by  a  reformation  of 
the  general  manners." 


6  THE    BLUNDERER  ;   OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS. 

s  Drvden  is  also  said  to  have  consulted  TAmant  indiscret  of  Quinault, 
5r'  order  to  furbish  forth  the  Duke  of  Newcastle's  labours.  Sir  Walter 
Scott  states  in  his  introduction  :  "  in  that  part  of  the  play,  which  occasions 
its  second  title  of  '  the  feigned  Innocence,' the  reader  will  hardly  find  wit 
enough  to  counterbalance  the  want  of  delicacy ."  Murphy  has  borrowed 
from  The  Blunderer  some  incidents  of  the  second  act  of  his  School  for 
Guardians,  played  for  the  first  time  in  1767. 

»  According  to  Geneste,  Some  Accounts  of  the  English  Stage  10  yols.,  1832,  vol. 
i  p  76  Bishop  Warburton,  in  his  Alliance  of  Church  and  Mate  (the  same  work 
is  mentioned  in  Note  2),  and  Porson  in  his  Letters  to  Travis  alludes  to  this  scene. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON^.4 

LELIO,  son  to  PANDOLPHUS. 

LEANDER,  a  young  gentleman  of  good  birth. 

ANSELMO,  an  old  man. 

PANDOLPHUS,  an  old  man. 

TRUFALDIN,  an  old  man. 

ANDRES,  a  supposed  gipsy. 

MASCARILLE,*  servautto  Lelio. 

ERGASTE,  a  servant. 

A  MESSENGER. 

Two  Troops  of  Masquer aders. 

CELIA,  slave  to  TRUFALDIN. 
HIPPOLYTA,  daughter  to  ANSELMO. 

Scene. — MESSINA. 


4  Moliere,  Racine,  and  Corneille  always  call  the  dramatis  personae 
acteun,  and  not  personnages. 

6  Mascarille  is  a  name  invented  by  Moliere,  and  a  diminutive  of  the 
Spanish  mascara,  a  mask.  Some  commentators  of  Moliere  think  that  the 
author,  who  acted  this  part,  may  sometimes  have  played  it  in  a  mask,  but 
this  is  now  generally  contradicted.  He  seems,  however,  to  have  performed 
it  habitually,  for  after  his  death  there  was  taken  an  inventory  of  all  his 
dresses,  and  amongst  these,  according  to  M.  EudoreSouli^,  Recherches  sur 
Moliere,  1863,  p.  278,  was:  4<a  .  .  .  dress  for  /' £tourdi,  consisting  in 
doublet,  knee-breeches,  and  cloak  of  satin."  Before  his  time  the  usual 
name  of  the  intriguing  man-servant  was  Philipitt. 


THE  BLUNDERER:  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS. 

(L'ETOURDI,  ou  LES  CONTRE-TEMPS.} 


ACT  I. 
SCENE  I. — LELIO,  alone. 

LEL.  Very  well  !  Leander,  very  well  !  we  must  quarrel 
then, — we  shall  see  which  of  us  two  will  gain  the  day ; 
and  which,  in  our  mutual  pursuit  after  this  young  miracle 
of  beauty,  will  thwart  the  most  his  rival's  addresses.  Do 
whatever  you  can,  defend  yourself  well,  for  depend  upon 
it,  on  my  side  no  pains  shall  be  spared. 

SCENE  II. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  Ah  !   Mascarille  ! 

MASC.  What's  the  matter? 

LEL.  A  great  deal  is  the  matter.  Everything  crosses 
my  love.  Leander  is  enamoured  of  Celia.  The  Fates 
have  willed  it,  that  though  I  have  changed  the  object  of 
my  passion,  he  still  remains  my  rival. 

MASC.   Leander  enamoured  of  Celia  ! 

LEL.  He  adores  her,  I  tell  you.6 

MASC.  So  much  the  worse. 

LEL.  Yes,  so  much  the  worse,  and  that's  what  annoys 
me.  However,  I  should  be  wrong  to  despair,  for  since 
you  aid  me,  I  ought  to  take  courage.  I  know  that  your 
mind  can  plan  many  intrigues,  and  never  finds  anything 

6  In  French,  tit,  tot,  thee,  thou,  denote  either  social  superiority  or 
familiarity.  The  same  phraseology  was  also  employed  in  many  English 
comedies  of  that  time,  but  sounds  so  stiff  at  present,  that  the  translator 
has  everywhere  used  "  you." 

9 


io  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTI. 

too  difficult ;  that  you  should  be  called  the  prince  of  ser- 
vants, and  that  throughout  the  whole  world.     . 

MASC.  A  truce  to  these  compliments;  when  people 
have  need  of  us  poor  servants,  we  are  darlings,  and  in- 
comparable creatures ;  but  at  other  times,  at  the  least  fit 
of  anger,  we  are  scoundrels,  and  ought  to  be  soundly 
thrashed. 

LEL.  Nay,  upon  my  word,  you  wrong  me  by  this  re- 
mark. But  let  us  talk  a  little  about  the  captive.  Tell  me, 
is  there  a  heart  so  cruel,  so  unfeeling,  as  to  be  proof 
against  such  charming  features  ?  For  my  part,  in  her  con- 
versation as  well  as  in  her  countenance,  I  see  evidence  of 
her  noble  birth.  I  believe  that  Heaven  has  concealed  a 
lofty  origin  beneath  such  a  lowly  station. 

MASC.  You  are  very  romantic  with  all  your  fancies.  But 
what  will  Pandolphus  do  in  this  case  ?  He  is  your  father, 
at  least  he  says  so.  You  know  very  well  that  his  bile  is 
pretty  often  stirred  up ;  that  he  can  rage  against  you  finely, 
when  your  behaviour  offends  him.  He  is  now  in  treaty 
with  Anselmo  about  your  marriage  with  his  daughter, 
Hippolyta ;  imagining  that  it  is  marriage  alone  that  may- 
hap can  steady  you :  now,  should  he  discover  that  you 
reject  his  choice,  and  that  you  entertain  a  passion  for  a 
person  nobody  knows  anything  about ;  that  the  fatal 
power  of  this  foolish  love  causes  you  to  forget  your  duty 
and  disobey  him  ;  Heaven  knows  what  a  storm  will  then 
burst  forth,  and  what  fine  lectures  you  will  be  treated  to. 

LEL.  A  truce,  I  pray,  to  your  rhetoric. 

MASC.  Rather  a  truce  to  your  manner  of  loving,  it  is 
none  of  the  best,  and  you  ought  to  endeavour  . 
-  LEL.  Don't  you  know,  that  nothing  is  gained  by  making 
me  angry,  that  remonstrances  are  badly  rewarded  by  me, 
and  that  a  servant  who  counsels  me  acts  against  his  own 
interest  ? 

MASC.  (Aside}.  He  is  in  a  passion  now.  (Aloud}.  All 
that  I  said  was  but  in  jest,  and  to  try  you.  -  Do  I  look  so 
very  much  like  a  censor,  and  is  Mascarille  an  enemy  to 
pleasure  ?  You  know  the  contrary,  and  that  it  is  only  too 
certain  people  can  tax  me  with  nothing  but  being  too 
good-natured.  Laugh  at  the  preachings  of  an  old  grey- 
beard of  a  father ;  go  on,  I  tell  you,  and  mind  them  not. 


SCENE  n.]  OR,    THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  I! 

Upon  my  word,  I  am  of  opinion  that  these  old,  effete  and 
grumpy  libertines  come  to  stupify  us  with  their  silly 
stories,  and  being  virtuous,  out  of  necessity,  hope  through 
sheer  envy  to  deprive  young  people  of  all  the  pleasures  of 
life  !  You  know  my  talents  ;  I  am  at  your  service. 

LEL.  Now,  this  is  talking  in  a  manner  I  like.  More- 
over, when  I  first  declared  my  passion,  it  was  not  ill  re- 
ceived by  the  lovely  object  who  inspired  it ;  but,  just 
now,  Leander  has  declared  to  me  that  he  is  preparing  to 
deprive  me  of  Celia  ;  therefore  let  us  make  haste  ;  ransack 
your  brain  for  the  speediest  means  to  secure  me  possession 
of  her  ;  plan  any  tricks,  stratagems,  rogueries,  inventions, 
to  frustrate  my  rival's  pretensions. 

MASC.  Let  me  think  a  little  upon  this  matter.  (Aside}. 
What  can  I  invent  upon  this  urgent  occasion  ? 

LEL.   Well,  the  stratagem  ? 

MASC.  Wha.t  a  hurry  you  are  in  !  My  brain  must  always 
move  slowly.  I  have  found  what  you  want ;  you  must .  .  . 
No,  that's  not  it ;  but  if  you  would  go  ... 

LEL.  Whither? 

MASC.  No,  that's  a  flimsy  trick.     I  thought  that  .  .  . 

LEL.  What  is  it  ? 

MASC.  That  will  not  do  either.    But  could  you  not  .   .  ? 

LEL.  Could  I  not  what  ? 

MASC.  No,  you  could  not  do  anything.  Speak  to  An- 
selmo. 

LEL.  And  what  can  I  say  to  him  ? 

MASC.  That  is  true ;  that  would  be  falling  out  of  the 
frying-pan  into  the  fire.  Something  must  be  done  how- 
ever. Go  to  Trufaldin. 

LEL.  What  to  do  ? 

MASC.  I  don't  know. 

LEL.  Zounds  !  this  is  too  much.  You  drive  me  mad 
with  this  idle  talk. 

MASC.  Sir,  if  you  could  lay  your  hand  on  plenty  of 
pistoles,7  we  should  have  no  need  now  to  think  of  and  try 
to  find  out  what  means  we  must  employ  in  compassing 


T  The  pistole  is  a  Spanish  gold  coin  worth  about  four  dollars  ;  formerly 
the  French  pistole  was  worth  in  France  ten  livres — about  ten  francs — 
they  were  struck  in  Franche-Comte. 


12  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTI. 

our  wishes  ;  we  might,  by  purchasing  this  slave  quickly, 
prevent  your  rival  from  forestalling  and  thwarting  you. 
Trufaldin,  who  takes  charge  of  her,  is  rather  uneasy  about 
these  gipsies,  who  placed  her  with  him.  If  he  could  get 
back  his  money,  which  they  have  made  him  wait  for  too 
long,  I  am  quite  sure  he  would  be  delighted  to  sell  her; 
for  he  always  lived  like  the  veriest  curmudgeon  ;  he  would 
allow  himself  to  be  whipped  for  the  smallest  coin  of  the 
realm.  Money  is  the  God  he  worships  above  everything, 
but  the  worst  of  it  is  that  .  .  . 

LEL.  What  is  the  worst  of  it?    .    .    . 

MASC.  That  your  father  is  just  as  covetous  an  old  hunk, 
who  does  not  allow  you  to  handle  his  ducats,  as  you  would 
like  ;  that  there  is  no  way  by  which  we  could  now  open 
ever  so  small  a  purse,  in  order  to  help  you.  But  let  us 
endeavour  to  speak  to  Celia  for  a  moment,  to  know  what 
she  thinks  about  this  affair ;  this  is  her  window. 

LEL.  But  Trufaldin  watches  her  closely  night  and  day; 
Take  care. 

MASC.  Let  us  keep  quiet  in  this  corner.  What  luck ! 
Here  she  is  coming  just  in  the  nick  of  time. 

SCENE  III. — CELIA,  LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  Ah  !  madam,  what  obligations  do  I  owe  to  Heaven 
for  allowing  me  to  behold  those  celestial  charms  you  are 
blest  with  !  Whatever  sufferings  your  eyes  may  have 
caused  me,  I  cannot  but  take  delight  in  gazing  on  them  in 
this  place. 

CEL.  My  heart,  which  has  good  reason  to  be  astonished 
at  your  speech,  does  not  wish  my  eyes  to  injure  any  one; 
if  they  have  offended  you  in  anything,  I  can  assure  you  I 
did  not  intend  it. 

LEL.  Oh !  no,  their  glances  are  too  pleasing  to  do  me 
an  injury.  I  count  it  my  chief  glory  to  cherish  the  wounds 
they  give  me ;  and  .  .  . 

MASC.  You  are  soaring  rather  too  high ;  this  style  is  by 
no  means  what  we  want  now;  let  us  make  better  use  of 
our  time ;  let  us  know  of  her  quickly  what  .  .  . 

TRUF.(#Sfib»).  Celia! 

MASC.  (To  Lelio).  Well,  what  do  you  think  now? 


SCENE  iv.]  OR,   THE   COUNTER   PLOTS.  13 

LEL.   O  cruel   mischance  !      What   business   has   this 
wretched  old  man  to  interrupt  us ! 

MASC.  Go,  withdraw,  I'll  find  something  to  say  to  him. 

SCENE  IV. — TRUFALDIN,  CELIA,  MASCARILLE,  and  LELIO 
in  a  corner. 

TRUF.  (To  Celia).  What  are  you  doing  out  of  doors? 
And  what  induces  you  to  go  out, — you,  whom  I  have 
forbidden  to  speak  to  any  one  ? 

CEL.  I  was  formerly  acquainted  with  this  respectable 
young  man  ;  you  have  no  occasion  to  be  suspicious  of  him. 

MASC.  Is  this  Signer  Trufaldin  ? 

CEL.  Yes,  it  is  himself. 

MASC.  Sir,  I  am  wholly  yours;  it  gives  me  extreme 
pleasure  to  have  this  opportunity  of  paying  my  most 
humble  respects  to  a  gentleman  who  is  everywhere  so 
highly  spoken  of. 

TRUF.  Your  most  humble  servant. 

MASC.  Perhaps  I  am  troublesome,  but  I  have  been 
acquainted  with  this  young  woman  elsewhere ;  and  as  I 
heard  about  the  great  skill  she  has  in  predicting  the  future, 
I  wished  to  consult  her  about  a  certain  affair. 

TRUF.  What !     Do  you  dabble  in  the  black  art  ? 

CEL.  No,  sir,  my  skill  lies  entirely  in  the  white.8 

MASC.  The  case  is  this.  The  master  whom  I  serve 
languishes  for  a  fair  lady  who  has  captivated  him.  He 
would  gladly  disclose  the  passion  which  burns  within  him 
to  the  beauteous  object  whom  he  adores,  but  a  dragon 
that  guards  this  rare  treasure,  in  spite  of  all  his  attempts, 
has  hitherto  prevented  him.  And  what  torments  him 
still  more  and  makes  him  miserable,  is  that  he  has  just 
discovered  a  formidable  rival ;  so  that  I  have  come  to 
consult  you  to  know  whether  his  love  is  likely  to  meet 
with  any  success,  being  well  assured  that  from  your 
mouth  I  may  learn  truly  the  secret  which  concerns  us. 

CEL.  Under  what  planet  was  your  master  born  ? 

MASC.  Under  that  planet  which  never  alters  his  love. 

8  The  white  art  (magie  blanche)  only  dealt  with  beneficent  spirits,  and 
wished  to  do  good  to  mankind ;  the  black  art  (magie  noire)  invoked  evil 
spirits. 


14  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTI. 

CEL.  Without  asking  you  to  name  the  object  he  sighs 
for,  the  science  which  I  possess  gives  me  sufficient  infor- 
mation. This  young  woman  is  high-spirited,  and  knows 
how  to  preserve  a  noble  pride  in  the  midst  of  adversity ; 
she  is  not  inclined  to  declare  too  freely  the  secret  senti- 
ments of  her  heart.  But  I  know  them  as  well  as  herself, 
and  am  going  with  a  more  composed  mind  to  unfold 
them  all  to  you,  in  a  few  words. 

MASC.  O  wonderful  power  of  magic  virtue  ! 

CEL.  If  your  master  is  really  constant  in  his  affections, 
and  if  virtue  alone  prompts  him,  let  him  be  under  no  ap- 
prehension of  sighing  in  vain :  he  has  reason  to  hope,  the 
fortress  he  wishes  to  take  is  not  averse  to  capitulation,  but 
rather  inclined  to  surrender. 

MASC.  That's  something,  but  then  the  fortress  depends 
upon  a  governor  whom  it  is  hard  to  gain  over. 

CEL.  There  lies  the  difficulty. 

MASC.  (Aside,  looking  at  Lelid).  The  deuce  take  this 
troublesome  fellow,  who  is  always  watching  us. 

CEL.   I  am  going  to  teach  you  what  you  ought  to  do. 

LEL.  {Joining  them).  Mr.  Trufaldin,  give  yourself  no 
farther  uneasiness;  it  was  purely  in  obedience  to  my 
orders  that  this  trusty  servant  came  to  visit  you ;  I  dis- 
patched him  to  offer  you  my  services,  and  to  speak  to  you 
concerning  this  young  lady,  whose  liberty  I  am  willing 
to  purchase  before  long,  provided  we  two  can  agree  about 
the  terms. 

MASC.  (Aside).  Plague  take  the  ass  ! 

TRUF.  Ho !  ho  !  Which  of  the  two  am  I  to  believe  ? 
This  story  contradicts  the  former  very  much. 

MASC.  Sir,  this  gentleman  is  a  little  bit  wrong  in  the 
upper  story :  did  you  not  know  it  ? 

TRUF.  I  know  what  I  know,  and  begin  to  smell  a  rat. 
Get  you  in  (to  Celta),  and  never  take  such  a  liberty  again. 
As  for  you  two,  arrant  rogues,  or  I  am  much  mistaken, 
if  you  wish  to  deceive  me  again,  let  your  stories  be  a 
little  more  in  harmony. 

SCENE  V. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 
MASC.  He  is  quite  right.     To  speak  plainly,  I  wish  he 


SCENE  vi.J  OR,    THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  1 5 

had  given  us  both  a  sound  cudgelling.  What  was  the 
good  of  showing  yourself,  and,  like  a  Blunderer,  coming 
and  giving  the  lie  to  all  that  I  had  been  saying  ? 

LEL.  I  thought  I  did  right. 

MASC.  To  be  sure.  But  this  action  ought  not  to  sur- 
prise me.  You  possess  so  many  counterplots  that  your 
freaks  no  longer  astonish  anybody. 

LEL.  Good  Heavens !  How  I  am  scolded  for  nothing  ! 
Is  the  harm  so  great  that  it  cannot  be  remedied  ?  How- 
ever, if  you  cannot  place  Celia  in  my  hands,  you  may  at 
least  contrive  to  frustrate  all  Leander's  schemes,  so  that 
he  cannot  purchase  this  fair  one  before  me.  But  lest  my 
presence  should  be  further  mischievous,  I  leave  you. 

MASC.  (Alone).  Very  well.  To  say  the  truth,  money 
would  be  a  sure  and  staunch  agent  in  our  cause ;  but  as  this 
mainspring  is  lacking,  we  must  employ  some  other  means. 

SCENE  VI. — ANSELMO,  MASCARILLE. 

ANS.  Upon  my  word,  this  is  a  strange  age  we  live  in  ; 
I  am  ashamed  of  it ;  there  was  never  such  a  fondness  for 
money,  and  never  so  much  difficulty  in  getting  one's  own. 
Notwithstanding  all  the  care  a  person  may  take,  debts  now- 
a-days  are  like  children,  begot  with  pleasure,  but  brought 
forth  with  pain.  It  is  pleasant  for  money  to  come  into 
our  purse ;  but  when  the  time  comes  that  we  have  to  give 
it  back,  then  the  pangs  of  labour  seize  us.  Enough  of  this, 
it  is  no  trifle  to  receive  at  last  two  thousand  francs  which 
have  been  owing  upwards  of  two  years.  What  luck ! 

MASC.  {Aside}.  Good  Heavens  !  What  fine  game  to 
shoot  flying !  Hist,  let  me  see  if  I  cannot  wheedle  him  a 
little.  I  know  with  what  speeches  to  soothe  him.  (Join- 
ing him).  Anselmo  I  have  just  seen.  .  .  . 

ANS.  Who,  prithee? 

MASC.  Your  Nerina. 

ANS.  What  does  the  cruel  fair  one  say  about  me  ? 

MASC.  Say  ?  that  she  is  passionately  fond  of  you. 

ANS.  Is  she  ? 

MASC.   She  loves  you  so  that  I  very  much  pity  her. 

ANS.   How  happy  you  make  me  ! 

MASC.  The  poor  thing  is  nearly  dying  with  love.  "Oh, 
my  dearest  Anselmo,"  she  cries  every  minute,  "when 


1 6  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTI. 

shall  marriage  unite  our  two  hearts?  When  will  you 
vouchsafe  to  extinguish  my  flames  ?  ' ' 

ANS.  But  why  has  she  hitherto  concealed  this  from  me  ? 
Girls,  in  troth,  are  great  dissemblers  !  Mascarille,  what  do 
you  say,  really?  Though  in  years,  yet  I  look  still  well 
enough  to  please  the  eye. 

MASC.  Yes,  truly,  that  face  of  yours  is  still  very  passa- 
ble ;  if  it  is  not  of  the  handsomest  in  the  world,  it  is  very 
agreeable.9 

ANS.  So  that 

MASC.  {Endeavouring  to  take  the  purse}.  So  that  she 
dotes  on  you ;  and  regards  you  no  longer 

ANS.  What? 

MASC.  But  as  a  husband  :    and  fully  intends  .... 

ANS.  And  fully  intends  .    .    .    .  ? 

MASC.  And  fully  intends,  whatever  may  happen,  to  steal 
your  purse 

ANS.  To  steal  .    .    .    .  ? 

MASC.  (Taking  the  purse,  and  letting  it  fall  to  the  ground}. 
To  steal  a  kiss  from  your  mouth.10 

ANS.  Ah  !  I  understand  you.  Come  hither  !  The  next 
time  you  see  her,  be  sure  to  say  as  many  fine  things  of  me 
as  possible. 

MASC.  Let  me  alone. 

ANS.   Farewell. 

MASC.  May  Heaven  guide  you  ! 

ANS.  (Returning). ~R.Q\&  \  I  really  should  have  committed 
a  strange  piece  of  folly ;  and  you  might  justly  have 
accused  me  of  neglect.  I  engage  you  to  assist  me  in  serv- 
ing my  passion.  You  bring  good  tidings,  and  I  do  not 
give  you  the  smallest  present  to  reward  your  zeal.  Here, 
be  sure  to  remember  . 


9  The  original  has  a  play  on  words  which  cannot  be  translated,  as,  ce 
visage  est  encore  fort  mettable.     .     .     .  s'il  n'est  pas  des  plus  beaux,  il  est 
des  agreables  ;  which  two  last  words,  according  to  pronunciation,  can  also 
mean  disagreeable.    This  has  been  often  imitated  in  French.    After  the 
Legion  of  Honour  was  instituted  in  France  in  1804,  some  of  the  wdts  of 
the  time  asked  the  Imperialists  :  etes-vous  des  honores  f 

10  There  is  here  again,  in  the  original,  a  play  on  the  words  bourse,  purse, 
and  bouche,  mouth,  which  cannot  be  rendered  in  English. 


SCBNBVIII.]  OR,   THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  17 

MASC.  O,  pray,  don't.11 

ANS.  Permit  me  .... 

MASC.  I  won't,  indeed  :  I  do  not  act  thus  for  the  sake 
of  money. 

ANS.   I  know  you  do  not.     But  however  .... 

MASC.  No,  Anselmo,  I  will  not.  I  am  a  man  of  hon- 
our \  this  offends  me. 

ANS.  Farewell  then,  Mascarille. 

MASC.   (Aside).     How  long-winded  he  is  ! 

ANS.  (Coming  bacK).  I  wish  you  to  carry  a  present  to 
the  fair  object  of  my  desires.  I  will  give  you  some  money 
to  buy  her  a  ring,  or  any  other  trifle,  as  you  may  think 
will  please  her  most. 

MASC.  No,  there  is  no  need  of  your  money ;  without 
troubling  yourself,  I  will  make  her  a  present ;  a  fashion- 
able ring  has  been  left  in  my  hands,  which  you  may  pay 
for  afterwards,  if  it  fits  her. 

ANS.  Be  it  so ;  give  it  her  in  my  name  ;  but  above  all, 
manage  matters  in  such  a  manner  that  she  may  still  desire 
to  make  me  her  own. 

SCENE  VII. — LELIO,  ANSELMO,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  {Taking  up  the  purse).  Whose  purse  is  this  ?  " 
ANS.  Oh  Heavens  !  I  dropt  it,  and  might  have  after- 
wards believed  somebody  had  picked  my  pocket.  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness,  which  saves 
me  a  great  deal  of  vexation,  and  restores  me  my  money. 
I  shall  go  home  this  minute  and  get  rid  of  it. 

SCENE  VIII. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Od's  death  !  You  have  been  very  obliging,  very 
much  so. 

LEL.  Upon  my  word  !  if  it  had  not  been  for  me  he 
would  have  lost  his  money. 

11  Compare  inShakspeare's  Winter's  Tale  Autolycus'  answer  to  Camillo 
(Act  IV.,  Scene  3),  who  gives  him  money,  "  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir,  .  .  . 
I  cannot  with  conscience  take  it."' 

M  During  the  whole  of  the  preceding  scene  Mascarille  has  quietly 
kicked  the  purse  away,  so  as  to  be  out  of  sight  of  Anselmo,  intending  to 
pick  it  up  when  the  latter  has  gone. 

VOL.  I.  B 


18  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACT  i. 

MASC.  Certainly,  you  do  wonders,  and  show  to-day  a 
most  exquisite  judgment  and  supreme  good  fortune.  We 
shall  prosper  greatly ;  go  on  as  you  have  begun. 

LEL.   What  is  the  matter  now  ?    What  have  I  done  ? 

MASC.  To  speak  plainly  as  you  wish  me  to  do,  and  as  I 
ought,  you  have  acted  like  a  fool.  You  know  very  well 
that  your  father  leaves  you  without  money;  that  a  formid- 
able rival  follows  us  closely;  yet  for  all  this,  when  to 
oblige  you  I  venture  on  a  trick  of  which  I  take  all  the 
shame  and  danger  upon  myself  .  .  . 

LEL.  What  ?  was  this  .    .    .  ? 

MASC.  Yes,  ninny ;  it  was  to  release  the  captive  that  I 
was  getting  the  money,  whereof  your  officiousness  took 
care  to  deprive  us. 

LEL.  If  that  is  the  case,  I  am  in  the  wrong.  But  who 
could  have  imagined  it  ? 

MASC.  It  really  required  a  great  deal  of  discernment. 

LEL.  You  should  have  made  some  signs  to  warn  me  of 
what  was  going  on. 

MASC.  Yes,  indeed  ;  I  ought  to  have  eyes  in  my  baek. 
By  Jove,13  be  quiet,  and  let  us  hear  no  more  of  your  non- 
sensical excuses.  Another,  after  all  this,  would  perhaps 
abandon  everything;  but  I  have  planned  just  now  a 
master-stroke,  which  I  will  immediately  put  into  execu- 
tion, on  condition  that  if  ... 

LEL.  No,  I  promise  you  henceforth  not  to  interfere 
either  in  word  or  deed. 

MASC.  Go  away,  then,  the  very  sight  of  you  kindles  my 
wrath. 

LEL.  Above  all,  don't  delay,  for  fear  that  in  this  busi- 
ness .  .  . 

MASC.  Once  more,  I  tell  you,  begone  !  I  will  set  about 
it.  {Exit  Lelio).  Let  us  manage  this  well;  it  will  be  a 
most  exquisite  piece  of  roguery ;  if  it  succeeds,  as  I  think 
it  must.  We'll  try.  .  .  .  But  here  comes  the  very  man 
I  want. 


18 The  play  is  supposed  to  be  in  Sicily;  hence  Pagan  oaths  are  not  out 
of  place.     Even  at  the  present  time  Italians  say,  per  Jove  I  per  Bacco  I 


SCBNK  ix.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  19 

SCENE  IX. — PANDOLPHUS,  MASCARILLE. 

PAND.  Mascarille  ! 

MASC.  Sir? 

PAND.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  very  dissatisfied  with 
my  son. 

MASC.  With  my  master  ?  You  are  not  the  only  one 
who  complains  of  him.  His  bad  conduct  which  has  grown 
unbearable  in  everything,  puts  me  each  moment  out  of 
patience. 

PAND.  I  thought,  however,  you  and  he  understood  one 
another  pretty  well. 

MASC.  I  ?  Believe  it  not,  sir.  I  am  always  trying  to 
put  him  in  mind  of  his  duty :  we  are  perpetually  at  dag- 
gers drawn.  Just  now  we  had  a'  quarrel  again  about  his 
engagement  with  Hippolyta,  which,  I  find  he  is  very 
averse  to.  By  a  most  disgraceful  refusal  he  violates  all 
the  respect  due  to  a  father. 

PAND.  A  quarrel  ? 

MASC.  Yes,  a  quarrel,  and  a  desperate  one  too. 

PAND.  I  was  very  much  deceived  then,  for  I  thought  you 
supported  him  in  all  he  did. 

MASC.  I  ?  See  what  this  world  is  come  to  !  How  is 
innocence  always  oppressed  !  If  you  knew  but  my  integ- 
rity, you  would  give  me  the  additional  salary  of  a  tutor, 
whereas  I  am  only  paid  as  his  servant.  Yes,  you  yourself 
could  not  say  more  to  him  than  I  do  in  order  to  make  him 
behave  better.  "For  goodness'  sake,  sir,"  I  say  to  him'1 
very  often,  "  cease  to  be  driven  hither  and  thither  with 
every  wind  that  blows, — reform ;  look  what  a  worthy 
father  Heaven  has  given  you,  what  a  reputation  he  has. 
Forbear  to  stab  him  thus  to  the  heart,  and  live,  as  he 
does,  as  a  man  of  honour." 

PAND.  That  was  well  said ;  and  what  answer  could  he 
make  to  this? 

MASC.  Answer?  Why  only  nonsense,  with  which  he 
almost  drives  me  mad.  Not  but  that  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  retains  those  principles  of  honour  which  he  de- 
rives from  you  ;  but  reason,  at  present,  does  not  sway  him. 
If  I  might  be  allowed  to  speak  freely,  you  should  soon  see 
him  submissive  without  much  trouble. 


20  THE   BLUNDERER  :  £ACT ,. 

PAND.  Speak  out. 

MASC.  It  is  a  secret  which  would  have  serious  conse- 
quences for  me,  should  it  be  discovered  ;  but  I  am  quite 
sure  I  can  confide  it  to  your  prudence 

PAND.  You  are  right. 

MASC.  Know  then  that  your  wishes  are  sacrificed  to  the 
love  your  son  has  for  a  certain  slave. 

PAND.  I  have  been  told  so  before ;  but  to  hear  it  from 
your  mouth  pleases  me. 

MASC.  I  leave  you  to  judge  whether  I  am  his  secret 
confidant  .  .  . 

PAND.  I  am  truly  glad  of  it. 

MASC.  However,  do  you  wish  to  bring  him  back  to  his 
duty,  without  any  public  scandal  ?  You  must  ...  (I  am 
in  perpetual  fear  lest  anybody  should  surprise  us.  Should 
he  learn  what  I  have  told  you,  I  should  be  a  dead  man.) 
You  must,  as  I  was  saying,  to  break  off  this  business, 
secretly  purchase  this  slave,  whom  he  so  much  idolizes,  and 
send  her  into  another  country.  Anselmo  is  very  intimate 
with  Trufaldin ;  let  him  go  and  buy  her  for  you  this  very 
morning.  Then,  if  you  put  her  into  my  hands,  I  know 
some  merchants,  and  promise  you  to  sell  her  for  the  money 
she  costs  you,  and  to  send  her  out  of  the  way  in  spite  of 
your  son.  For,  if  you  would  have  him  disposed  for  matri- 
mony, we  must  divert  this  growing  passion.  Moreover, 
even  if  he  were  resolved  to  wear  the  yoke  you  design  for 
him,  yet  this  other  girl  might  revive  his  foolish  fancy,  and 
prejudice  him  anew  against  matrimony. 

PAND.  Very  well  argued.  I  like  this  advice  much. 
Here  comes  Anselmo ;  go,  I  will  do  my  utmost  quickly  to 
obtain  possession  of  this  troublesome  slave,  when  I  will 
put  her  into  your  hands  to  finish  the  rest. 

MASC.  {Alone).  Bravo,  I  will  go  and  tell  my  master  of 
this.  Long  live  all  knavery,  and  knaves  also  ! 

SCENE  X. — HIPPOLYTA,  MASCARILLE. 
HIPP.  Ay,  traitor,  is  it  thus  that  you  serve  me  ?  I  over 
heard  all,  and  have  myself  been  a  witness  of  your  treach- 
ery.    Had  I  not,  could  I  have  suspected  this  ?     You  are 
an  arrant  rogue,  and  you  have  deceived  me.     You  pro- 
mised me,  you  miscreant,  and  I  expected,  that  you  would 


SCBNK  x.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  21 

assist  me  in  my  passion  for  Leander,  that  your  skill  and 
your  management  should  find  means  to  break  off  my 
match  with  Lelio  ;  that  you  would  free  me  from  my  father's 
project ;  and  yet  you  are  doing  quite  the  contrary.  But 
you  will  find  yourself  mistaken.  I  know  a  sure  method 
of  breaking  off  the  purchase  you  have  been  urging  Pan- 
dolphus  to  make,  and  I  will  go  immediately  .... 

MASC.  How  impetuous  you  are  !  You  fly  into  a  passion 
in  a  moment ;  without  inquiring  whether  you  are  right  or 
wrong,  you  fall  foul  of  me.  I  am  in  the  wrong,  and  I 
ought  to  make  your  words  true,  without  finishing  what  I 
began,  since  you  abuse  me  so  outrageously. 

HIPP.  By  what  illusion  do  you  think  to  dazzle  my  eyes, 
traitor  ?  Can  you  deny  what  I  have  just  now  heard  ? 

MASC.  No  ;  but  you  must  know  that  all  this  plotting 
was  only  contrived  to  serve  you  ;  that  this  cunning  advice, 
which  appeared  so  sincere,  tends  to  make  both  old  men  fall 
into  the  snare  ;  that  all  the  pains  I  have  taken  for  getting 
Celia  into  my  hands,  through  their  means,  was  to  secure 
her  for  Lelio,  and  to  arrange  matters  so  that  Anselmo,  in 
the  very  height  of  passion,  and  finding  himself  disappointed 
of  his  son-in-law,  might  make  choice  of  Leander. 

HIPP.  What !  This  admirable  scheme,  which  has  an- 
gered me  so  much,  was  all  for  my  sake,  Mascarille  ? 

MASC.  Yes,  for  your  sake ;  but  since  I  find  my  good 
offices  meet  with  so  bad  a  return, — since  I  have  thus  to 
bear  your  caprices,  and  as  a  reward  for  my  services,  you 
come  here  with  a  haughty  air,  and  call  me  knave,  cur, 
and  cheat,  I  shall  presently  go,  correct  the  mistake  I 
have  committed,  and  undo  what  I  had  undertaken  to 
perform. 

HIPP.  (Holding  him.)  Nay,  do  not  be  so  severe  upon 
me,  and  forgive  these  outbursts  of  a  sudden  passion. 

MASC.  No,  no ;  let  me  go.  I  have  it  yet  in  my  power 
to  set  aside  the  scheme  which  offends  you  so  much. 
Henceforth  you  shall  have  no  occasion  to  complain  of  my 
zeal.  Yes,  you  shall  have  my  master,  I  promise  you. 

HIPP.  My  good  Mascarille,  be  not  in  such  a  passion.  I 
judged  you  ill ;  I  was  wrong;  I  confess  I  was.  (Pulls  out 
her  purse).  But  I  intend  to  atone  for  my  fault  with  this. 
Could  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  abandon  me  thus? 


22  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  i. 

MASC.  No,  I  cannot,  do  what  I  will.  But  your  impetu- 
osity was  very  shocking.  Let  me  tell  you  that  nothing 
offends  a  noble  mind  so  much  as  the  smallest  imputation 
upon  its  honour. 

HIPP.  It  is  true ;  I  treated  you  to  some  very  harsh  lan- 
guage, but  here  are  two  louis  to  heal  your  wounds. 

MASC.  Oh  !  all  this  is  nothing.  I  am  very  sensitive  on 
this  point;  but  my  passion  begins  to  cool  a  little  already. 
We  must  bear  with  the  failings  of  our  friends. 

HIPP.  Can  you,  then,  bring  about  what  I  so  earnestly 
wish  for?  Do  you  believe  your  daring  projects  will  be  as 
favourable  to  my  passion  as  you  imagine  ? 

MASC.  Do  not  make  yourself  uneasy  on  that  account.  I 
have  several  irons  in  the  fire,  and  though  this  stratagem 
should  fail  us,  what  this  cannot  do,  another  shall. 

HIPP.  Depend  upon  it,  Hippolyta  will  at  least  not  be 
ungrateful. 

MASC.  It  is  not  the  hope  of  gain  that  makes  me  act. 

HIPP.  Your  master  beckons  and  wishes  to  speak  with 
you.  I  will  leave  you,  but  remember  to  do  what  you 
can  for  me. 

SCENE  XI. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  What  the  deuce  are  you  doing  there  ?  You  pro- 
mised to  perform  wonders,  but  I  am  sure  your  dilatory 
ways  are  unparalleled.  Had  not  my  good  genius  inspired 
me,  my  happiness  had  been  already  wholly  overthrown. 
There  was  an  end  to  my  good  fortune,  my  joy.  I  should 
have  been  a  prey  to  eternal  grief;  in  short,  had  I  not  gone 
to  this  place  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  Anselmo  would  have 
got  possession  of  the  captive,  and  I  should  have  been  de- 
prived of  her.  He  was  carrying  her  home,  but  I  parried 
the  thrust,  warded  off  the  blow,  and  so  worked  upon  Tru- 
faldin's  fears  as  to  make  him  keep  the  girl. 

MASC.  This  is  the  third  time  !  When  we  come  to  ten 
we  will  score.  It  was  by  my  contrivance,  incorrigible 
scatterbrains,  that  Anselmo  undertook  this  desirable  pur- 
chase ;  she  should  have  been  placed  into  my  own  hands, 
but  your  cursed  officiousness  knocks  everything  on  the 
head  again.  Do  you  think  I  shall  still  labour  to  serve 
your  love  ?  I  would  sooner  a  hundred  times  become  a  fat 


scKNm  i.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  23 

old  woman,  a  dolt,  a  cabbage,  a  lantern,  a  wehrwolf,  and 
that  Satan  should  twist  your  neck  ! 

LEL.  {Alone. .)  I  must  take  him  to  some  tavern  and  let 
him  vent  his  passion  on  the  bottles  and  glasses. 


ACT  II. 
SCENE  I. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  I  have  at  length  yielded  to  your  desires.  In 
spite  of  all  my  protestations  I  could  hold  out  no  longer ; 
I  am  going  to  venture  upon  new  dangers,  to  promote  your 
interest,  which  I  intended  to  abandon.  So  tender-hearted 
am  I !  If  dame  nature  had  made  a  girl  of  Mascarille,  I 
leave  you  to  guess  what  would  have  happened.  However, 
after  this  assurance,  do  not  deal  a  back  stroke  to  the  pro- 
ject I  am  about  to  undertake  ;  do  not  make  a  blunder 
and  frustrate  my  expectations.  Then,  as  to  Anselmo,  we 
shall  anew  present  your  excuses  to  him,  in  order  to  get 
what  we  desire.  But  should  your  imprudence  burst  forth 
again  hereafter,  then  you  may  bid  farewell  to  all  the 
trouble  I  take  for  the  object  of  your  passion. 

LEL.  No,  I  shall  be  careful,  I  tell  you  ;  never  fear;  you 
shall  see.  .  .  . 

MASC.  Well,  mind  that  you  keep  your  word.  I  have 
planned  a  bold  stratagem  for  your  sake.  Your  father  is 
very  backward  in  satisfying  all  your  wishes  by  his  death. 
I  have  just  killed  him  (in  words,  I  mean)  ;  I  have  spread  a 
report  that  the  good  man,  being  suddenly  smitten  by  a  fit 
of  apoplexy,  has  departed  this  life.  But  first,  so  that  I 
might  the  better  pretend  he  was  dead,  I  so  managed  that 
he  went  to  his  barn.  I  had  a  person  ready  to  come  and 
tell  him  that  the  workmen  employed  on  his  house  acciden- 
tally discovered  a  treasure,  in  digging  the  foundations. 
He  set  out  in  an  instant,  and  as  all  his  people,  except  us 
two,  have  gone  with  him  into  the  country,  I  shall  kill  him 
to-day  in  everybody's  imagination  and  produce  some 
image  which  I  shall  bury  under  his  name.  I  have  already 
told  you  what  I  wish  you  to  do  ;  play  your  part  well ; 
and  as  to  the  character  I  have  to  keep  up,  if  you  perceive 


24  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  11. 

that  I  miss  one  word  of  it,  tell  me  plainly  I  am  nothing 
but  a  fool. 

SCENE  II. — LELIO,  alone. 

It  is  true,  he  has  found  out  a  strange  way  to  accomplish 
my  wishes  fully ;  but  when  we  are  very  much  in  love  with 
a  fair  lady,  what  would  we  not  do  to  be  made  happy  ?  If 
love  is  said  to  be  an  excuse  for  a  crime,  it  may  well  serve 
for  a  slight  piece  of  imposture,  which  love's  ardour  to-day 
compels  me  to  comply  with,  in  expectation  of  the  happy 
consequences  that  may  result  from  it.  Bless  me  !  How 
expeditious  they  are.  I  see  them  already  talking  together 
about  it ;  let  us  prepare  to  act  our  part. 

SCENE  III. — MASCARILLE,  ANSELMO. 

MASC.  The  news  may  well  surprise  you. 

ANS.  To  die  in  such  a  manner  ! 

MASC.  He  was  certainly  much  to  blame.  I  can  never 
forgive  him  for  such  a  freak. 

ANS.  Not  even  to  take  time  to  be  ilt 

MASC.  No,  never  was  a  man  in  such  a  hurry  to  die. 

ANS.  And  how  does  Lelio  behave  ? 

MASC.  He  raves,  and  has  lost  all  command  over  his 
temper  ;  he  has  beaten  himself  till  he  is  black  and  blue  in 
several  places,  and  wishes  to  follow  his  father  into  the  grave. 
In  short,  to  make  an  end  of  this,  the  excess  of  his  grief  has 
made  me  with  the  utmost  speed  wrap  the  corpse  in  a 
shroud,  for  fear  the  sight,  which  fed  his  melancholy,  should 
tempt  him  to  commit  some  rash  act. 

ANS.  No  matter,  you  ought  to  have  waited  until  even- 
ing. Besides,  I  should  have  liked  to  see  Pandolphus  once 
more.  He  who  puts  a  shroud  on  a  man  too  hastily  very 
often  commits  murder;  for  a  man  is  frequently  thought  dead 
when  he  only  seems  to  be  so. 

MASC.  I  warrant  him  as  dead  as  dead  can  be.  But 
now,  to  return  to  what  we  were  talking  about,  Lelio  has 
resolved  (and  it  will  do  him  good)  to  give  his  father  a  fine 
funeral,  and  to  comfort  the  deceased  a  little  for  his  hard 
fate,  by  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that  we  pay  him  such  honours 
after  his  death.  My  master  inherits  a  goodly  estate,  but  as 
he  is  only  a  novice  in  business,  and  does  not  see  his  way 


SCENE  iv.]  OR,  THE    COUNTERPLOTS.  2$ 

clearly  in  his  affairs,  since  the  greater  part  of  his  property 
lies  in  another  part  of  the  country,  or  what  he  has  here  con- 
sists in  paper,  he  would  beg  of  you,  after  having  entreated 
you  to  excuse  the  too  great  violence  which  he  has  shewn 
of  late,  to  lend  him  for  this  last  duty  at  least.  .  .  . 

ANS.  You  have  told  me  so  already,  and  I  will  go  and 
see  him. 

MASC.  (Alone}.  Hitherto,  at  least,  everything  goes  on 
swimmingly  ;  let  us  endeavour  to  make  the  rest  answer  as 
well;  and  lest  we  should  be  wrecked  in  the  very  harbour, 
let  us  steer  the  ship  carefully  and  keep  a  sharp  look  out. 

SCENE  IV. — ANSELMO,  LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

ANS.  (Coming  out  of  Pandolphus1  house}.  Let  us  leave 
the  house.  I  cannot,  without  great  sorrow,  see  him  wrapped 
up  in  this  strange  manner.  Alas  !  in  so  short  a  time  !  He 
was  alive  this  morning. 

MASC.  We  go  sometimes  over  a  good  deal  of  ground  in 
a  short  time. 

LEL.   (Weeping).  Oh! 

ANS.  Dear  Lelio,  he  was  but  a  man  after  all ;  even 
Rome  can  grant  no  dispensation  from  death. 

LEL.  Oh! 

ANS.  Death  smites  men  without  giving  warning,  and 
always  has  bad  designs  against  them. 

LEL.  Oh! 

ANS.  That  merciless  foe  would  not  loosen  one  grip 
of  his.  murderous  teeth,  however  we  may  entreat  him. 
Everybody  must  feel  them. 

LEL.  Oh! 

MASC.  Your  preaching  will  all  be  in  vain  ;  this  sorrow 
is  too  deep-rooted  to  be  plucked  up. 

ANS.  If,  notwithstanding  all  these  arguments,  you  will 
not  cast  aside  your  grief,  at  least,  my  dear  Lelio,  endeav- 
our to  moderate  it. 

LEL.  Oh! 

MASC.   He  will  not  moderate  it ;  I  know  his  temper. 

ANS.  However,  according  to  your  servant's  message,  I 
have  brought  you  the  money  you  want,  so  that  you  might 
celebrate  your  father's  funeral  obsequies  ! 

LEL.  Oh!   oh! 


26  THE    BLUNDERER  : 


[ACT  ii. 


MASC.  How  his  grief  increases  at  these  words !  It  will 
kill  him  to  think  of  his  misfortune. 

ANS.  I  know  you  will  find  by  the  good  man's  books 
that  I  owe  him  a  much  larger  sum,  but  even  if  I  should 
not  owe  anything,  you  could  freely  command  my  purse. 
Here  it  is;  I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  and  will  show  it. 

LEL.  (Going away).     Oh! 

MASC.   How  full  of  grief  is  my  master  ! 

ANS.  Mascarille,  I  think  it  right  he  should  give  me 
some  kind  of  receipt  under  his  hand. 

MASC.   Oh! 

ANS.  Nothing  in  this  world  is  certain. 

MASC.  Oh !  oh  ! 

ANS.   Get  him  to  sign  me  the  receipt  I  require. 

MASC.  Alas !  How  can  he  comply  with  your  desire  in 
the  condition  he  now  is  ?  Give  him  but  time  to  get  rid 
of  his  sorrow ;  and,  when  his  troubles  abate  a  little,  I 
shall  take  care  immediately  to  get  you  your  security. 
Your  servant,  sir,  my  heart  is  over-full  of  grief,  and  I 
shall  go  to  take  my  fill  of  weeping  with  him.  Hi !  Hi  ! 

ANS.  (Alone).  This  world  is  full  of  crosses ;  we  meet 
with  them  every  day  in  different  shapes,  and  never  here 
below  .  .  . 

SCENE  V. — PANDOLPHUS,  ANSELMO. 

ANS.  Oh  Heavens  !  how  I  tremble !  It  is  Pandolphus 
who  has  returned  to  the  earth  !  God  grant  nothing  dis- 
turbed his  repose  !  How  wan  his  face  is  grown  since  his 
death  !  Do  not  come  any  nearer,  I  beseech  you ;  I  very 
much  detest  to  jostle  a  ghost. 

PAND.  What  can  be  the  reason  of  this  whimsical  ter- 
ror? 

ANS.  Keep  your  distance,  and  tell  me  what  business 
brings  you  here.  If  you  have  taken  all  this  trouble  to  bid 
me  farewell,  you  do  me  too  much  honour ;  I  could  really 
have  done  very  well  without  your  compliment.  If  your 
soul  is  restless,  and  stands  in  need  of  prayers,  I  promise 
you  you  shall  have  them,  but  do  not  frighten  me.  Upon 
the  word  of  a  terrified  man,  I  will  immediately  set  prayers 
agoing  for  you,  to  your  very  heart's  content. 


SCBNB  v.j  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  2J 

"  Oh,  dead  worship,  please  to  go  ! 

Heaven,  if  now  you  disappear, 
Will  grant  you  joy  down  there  below, 

And  health  as  well,  for  many  a  year."14 

PAND.  (Laughing).  In  spite  of  my  indignation,  I  can- 
not help  laughing. 

ANS.  It  is  strange,  but  you  are  very  merry  for  a  dead 
man. 

PAND.  Is  this  a  joke,  pray  tell  me,  or  is  it  downright 
madness  to  treat  a  living  man  as  if  he  were  dead  ? 

ANS.  Alas  !  you  must  be  dead  ;  I  myself  just  now  saw 
you. 

PAND.  What  ?     Could  I  die  without  knowing  it  ? 

ANS.  As  soon  as  Mascarille  told  me  the  news,  I  was 
ready  to  die  of  grief. 

PAND.  But,  really,  are  you  asleep  or  awake  ?  Don't  you 
know  me? 

ANS.  You  are  clothed  in  an  aerial  body  which  imitates 
your  own,  but  which  may  take  another  shape  at  any  mo- 
ment. I  am  mightily  afraid  to  see  you  swell  up  to  the  size 
of  a  giant,  and  your  countenance  become  frightfully  dis- 
torted. For  the  love  of  God,  do  not  assume  any  hideous 
form  ;  you  have  scared  me  sufficiently  for  the  nonce. 

PAND.  At  any  other  time,  Anselmo,  I  should  have  con- 
sidered the  simplicity  which  accompanies  your  credulity 
an  excellent  joke,  and  I  should  have  carried  on  the  plea- 
sant conceit  a  little  longer  ;  but  this  story  of  my  death,  and 
the  news  of  the  supposed  treasure,  which  I  was  told  upon 
the  road  had  not  been  found  at  all,  raises  in  my  mind  a 
strong  suspicion  that  Mascarille  is  a  rogue,  and  an  arrant 
rogue,  who  is  proof  against  fear  or  remorse,  and  who  in- 
vents extraordinary  stratagems  to  compass  his  ends. 

ANS.  What !  Am  I  tricked  and  made  a  fool  of?  Really, 
this  would  be  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense  !  Let  me 
touch  him  and  be  satisfied.  This  is,  indeed,  the  very 
man.  What  an  ass  I  am  !  Pray,  do  not  spread  this  story 
about,  for  they  will  write  a  farce  about  it,  and  shame  me 


uThis  seems  to  be  an  imitation  of  a  spell,  charm,  or  incantation  to  lay 
the  supposed  ghost,  which  Anselmo  says  kneeling  and  hardly  able  to 
speak  for  terror. 


28  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTII. 

for  ever.  But,  Pandolphus,  help  me  to  get  the  money 
back  which  I  lent  them  to  bury  you. 

PAND.  Money,  do  you  say?  Oh!  that  is  where  the 
shoe  pinches  ;  that  is  the  secret  of  the  whole  affair  !  '  So 
much  the  worse  for  you.  For  my  part,  I  shall  not  trouble 
myself  about  it,  but  will  go  and  lay  an  information  against 
this  Mascarille,  and  if  he  can  be  caught  he  shall  be 
hanged,  whatever  the  cost  may  be. 

ANS.  (Alone).  And  I,  like  a  ninny,  believe  a  scoundrel, 
and  must  in  one  day  lose  both  my  senses  and  my  money. 
Upon  my  word,  it  well  becomes  me  to  have  these  gray 
hairs  and  to  commit  an  act  of  folly  so  readily,  without  ex- 
amining into  the  truth  of  the  first  story  I  hear  .  .  .  !  But 
I  see  .... 

SCENE  VI. — LELIO,  ANSELMO. 

LEL.  Now,  with  this  master-key,  I  can  easily  pay  Tru- 
faldin  a  visit. 

ANS.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  your  grief  has  subsided. 

LEL.  What  do  you  say?  No;  it  can  never  leave  a 
heart  which  shall  ever  cherish  it  dearly. 

ANS.  I  came  back  to  tell  you  frankly  of  a  mistake  I 
made  in  the  money  I  gave  you  just  now  ;  amongst  these 
louis-d'or,  though  they  look  very  good,  I  carelessly  put 
some  which  I  think  are  bad.  I  have  brought  some  money 
with  me  to  change  them.  The  intolerable  audacity  of  our 
coiners  is  grown  to  such  a  height  in  this  state,  that  no  one 
can  receive  any  money  now  without  danger  of  his  being 
imposed  upon.  It  would  be  doing  good  service  to  hang 
them  all ! 

LEL.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  being  willing 
to  take  them  back,  but  I  saw  none  among  them  that  were 
bad,  as  I  thought. 

ANS.  Let  me  see  the  money;  let  me  see  it;  I  shall 
know  them  again.  Is  this  all  ? 

LEL.  Yes. 

ANS.  So  much  the  better.  Are  you  back  again?  my 
dear  money !  get  into  my  pocket.  As  for  you,  my  gallant 
sharper,  you  have  no  longer  got  a  penny  of  it.  You  kill 
people  who  are  in  good  health,  do  ye  ?  And  what  would 
you  have  done,  then,  with  me,  a  poor  infirm  father-in-law? 


SCENE  vii  ]  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  29 

Upon  my  word,  I  was  going  to  get  a  nice  addition  to  my 
family,  a  most  discreet  son-in-law.  Go,  go,  and  hang 
yourself  for  shame  and  vexation. 

LEL.  {Alone}.  I  really  must  admit  I  have  been  bit  this 
time.  What  a  surprise  this  is  !  How  can  he  have  dis- 
covered our  stratagem  so  soon  ? 

•  SCENE  VII. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  What,  you  were  out  ?  I  have  been  hunting  for 
you  everywhere.  Well,  have  we  succeeded  at  last  ?  I  will 
give  the  greatest  rogue  six  trials  to  do  the  like.  Come, 
give  me  the  money  that  I  may  go  and  buy  the  slave  ;  your 
rival  will  be  very  much  astonished  at  this. 

LEL.  Ah  !  my  dear  boy,  our  luck  has  changed.  Can 
you  imagine  how  ill  fortune  has  served  me  ? 

MASC.  What  ?     What  can  it  be  ? 

LEL.  Anselmo  having  found  out  the  trick,  just  now  got 
back  every  sou  he  lent  us,  pretending  some  of  the  gold- 
pieces  were  bad,  and  that  he  was  going  to  change  them. 

MASC.  You  do  but  joke,  I  suppose  ? 

LEL.  It  is  but  too  true. 

MASC.  In  good  earnest? 

LEL.  In  good  earnest ;  I  am  very  much  grieved  about 
it.  It  will  put  you  into  a  furious  passion. 

MASC.  Me,  sir !  A  fool  might,  but  not  I !  Anger 
hurts,  and  I  am  going  to  take  care  of  myself,  come  what 
will.  After  all,  whether  Celia  be  captive  or  free,  whether 
Leander  purchases  her  or  whether  she  remains  where  she 
is,  I  do  not  care  one  stiver  about  it. 

LEL.  Ah  !  do  not  show  such  indifference,  but  be  a  little 
more  indulgent  to  my  slight  imprudence.  Had  this  last 
misfortune  not  happened,  you  would  have  confessed  that  I 
did  wonders,  and  that  in  this  pretended  decease  I  deceived 
everybody,  and  counterfeited  grief  so  admirably  that  the 
most  sharp-sighted  would  have  been  taken  in. 

MASC.  Truly  you  have  great  reason  to  boast. 

LEL.  Oh  !  I  am  to  blame,  and  I  am  willing  to  acknow- 
ledge it ;  but  if  ever  you  cared  for  my  happiness,  repair 
this  mishap,  and  help  me. 

MASC.  I  kiss  your  hands,  I  cannot  spare  the  time. 


3° 


THE    BLUNDERER  : 


LEL.  Mascarille,  my  dear  boy  ! 

MASC.   No. 

LEL.  Do  me  this  favour. 

MASC.  No,  I  will  not. 

LEL.   If  you  are  inflexible,  I  shall  kill  myself 

MASC.   Do  so — you  may. 

LEL.  Can  I  not  soften  your  hard  heart  ? 

MASC.   No. 

LEL.  Do  you  see  my  sword  ready  drawn  ? 

MASC.  Yes. 

LEL.  I  am  going  to  stab  myself. 

MASC.  Do  just  what  you  please. 

LEL.  Would  you  not  regret  to  be  the  cause  of  my 
death  ? 

MASC.  No. 

LEL.     Farewell,  Mascarille. 

MASC.  Good  bye,  Master  Lelio. 

LEL.  What     .     .     .     ? 

MASC.  Kill  yourself  quick.  You  are  a  long  while 
about  it. 

LEL.  Upon  my  word,  you  would  like  me  to  play  the 
fool  and  kill  myself,  so  that  you  might  get  hold  of  my 
clothes. 

MASC.  I  knew  all  this  was  nothing  but  a  sham  ;  what- 
ever people  may  swear  they  will  do,  they  are  not  so  hasty 
now-a-days  in  killing  themselves. 

SCENE  VIII. — TRUFALDIN,  LEANDER,  LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

{Trufaldin  taking  Leander  aside  and  whispering  to  him). 

LEL.  What  do  I  see  ?  my  rival  and  Trufaldin  together ! 
He  is  going  to  buy  Celia.  Oh  !  I  tremble  for  fear. 

MASC.  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  will  do  all  he  can;  and 
if  he  has  money,  he  can  do  all  he  will.  For  my  part  I 
am  delighted.  This  is  a  just  reward  for  your  blunders, 
your  impatience. 

LEL.  What  must  I  do  ?     Advise  me. 

MASC.  I  don't  know. 

LEL.  Stay,  I  will  go  and  pick  a  quarrel  with  him. 

MASC.  What  good  will  that  do  ? 

LEL.  What  would  you  have  me  do  to  ward  off  this  blow? 

MASC.  Well,  I  pardon  you ;  I  will  yet  cast  an  eye  of 


SCENE  ix.]  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  3 1 

pity  on  you.  Leave  me  to  watch  them  ;  I  believe  I  shall 
discover  what  he  intends  to  do  by  fairer  means.  {Exit 
Lelid}. 

TRUF.  {To  Leander).  When  you  send  by  and  by,  it 
shall  be  done. 

MASC.  {Aside  and  going  ouf).  I  must  trap  him  and 
become  his  confidant,  in  order  to  baffle  his  designs  the 
more  easily. 

LEAND.  (Alone).  Thanks  to  Heaven,  my  happiness  is 
complete.  I  have  found  the  way  to  secure  it,  and  fear 
nothing  more.  Whatever  my  rival  may  henceforth  at- 
tempt, it  is  no  longer  in  his  power  to  do  me  any  harm. 

SCENE  IX. — LEANDER,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  (Speaking  these  words  within,  and  then  coming 
on  the  stage}.  Oh !  oh !  Help !  Murder  !  Help  !  They 
are  killing  me !  Oh !  oh !  oh !  oh  !  Traitor !  Barbarian  ! 

LEAND.  Whence  comes  that  noise?  What  is  the 
matter  ?  What  are  they  doing  to  you  ? 

MASC.  He  has  just  given  me  two  hundred  blows  with  a 
cudgel. 

LEAND.  Who? 

MASC.  Lelio. 

LEAND.  And  for  what  reason  ? 

MASC.  For  a  mere  trifle  he  has  turned  me  away  and 
beats  me  most  unmercifully. 

LEAND.  He  is  really  much  to  blame. 

MASC.  But,  I  swear,  if  ever  it  lies  in  my  power  I  will 
be  revenged  on  him.  I  will  let  you  know,  Mr.  Thrasher, 
with  a  vengeance,  that  people's  bones  are  not  to  be  broken 
for  nothing  !  Though  I  am  but  a  servant,  yet  I  am  a 
man  of  honour.  After  having  been  in  your  service  for 
four  years  you  shall  not  pay  me  with  a  switch,  nor  affront 
me  in  so  sensible  a  part  as  my  shoulders  !  I  tell  you 
once  more,  I  shall  find  a  way  to  be  revenged  !  You  are 
in  love  with  a  certain  slave,  you  would  fain  induce  me 
to  get  her  for  you,  but  I  will  manage  matters  so  that 
somebody  else  shall  carry  her  off ;  the  deuce  take  me  if  I 
don't! 

LEAND.  Hear  me,  Mascarille,  and  moderate  your  pas- 
sion. I  always  liked  you,  and  often  wished  that  a  young 


32  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTH. 

fellow,  faithful  and  clever  like  you,  might  one  day  or  other 
take  a  fancy  to  enter  my  service.  In  a  word,  if  you  think 
my  offer  worthy  of  acceptance,  and  if  you  have  a  mind  to 
serve  me,  from  this  moment  I  engage  you. 

MASC.  With  all  my  heart,  sir,  and  so  much  the  rather 
because  good  fortune  in  serving  you  offers  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  being  revenged,  and  because  in  my  endeavours 
to  please  you  I  shall  at  the  same  time  punish  that  wretch. 
In  a  word,  by  my  dexterity,  I  hope  to  get  Celia  for  .  .  . 

LEAND.  My  love  has  provided  already  for  that.  Smitten 
by  a  faultless  fair  one,  I  have  just  now  bought  her  for  less 
than  her  vahie. 

MASC.   What  !   Celia  belongs  to  you,  then  ? 

LEAND.  You  should  see  her  this  minute,  if  I  were  the 
master  of  my  own  actions.  But  alas  !  it  is  my  father  who 
is  so ;  since  he  is  resolved,  as  I  understand  by  a  letter 
brought  me,  to  make  me  marry  Hippolyta.  I  would  not 
have  this  affair  come  to  his  knowledge  lest  it  should  ex- 
asperate him.  Therefore  in  my  arrangement  with  Trufal- 
din  (from  whom  I  just  now  parted),  I  acted  purposely  in 
the  name  of  another.  When  the  affair  was  settled,  my 
ring  was  chosen  as  the  token,  on  the  sight  of  which  Tru- 
faldin  is  to  deliver  Celia.  But  I  must  first  arrange  the 
ways  and  means  to  conceal  from  the  eyes  of  others  the 
girl  who  so  much  charms  my  own,  and  then  find  some  re- 
tired place  where  this  lovely  captive  may  be  secreted. 

MASC.  A  little  way  out  of  town  lives  an  old  relative  of 
mine,  whose  house  I  can  take  the  freedom  to  offer  you; 
there  you  may  safely  lodge  her,  and  not  a  creature  know 
anything  of  the  matter. 

LEAND.  Indeed !  so  I  can  :  you  have  delighted  me  with 
the  very  thing  I  wanted.  Here,  take  this,  and  go  and  get 
possession  of  the  fair  one.  As  soon  as  ever  Trufaldin  sees 
my  ring,  my  girl  will  be  immediately  delivered  into  your 
hands.  You  can  then  take  her  to  that  house,  when  .  .  . 
But  hist  !  here  comes  Hippolyta. 

SCENE  X. — HIPPOLYTA,  LEANDER,  MASCARILLE. 

HIPP.  I  have  some  news  for  you,  Leander,  but  will  you 
be  pleased  or  displeased  with  it  ? 

LEAND.  To  judge  of  that,  and  make  answer  off-hand,  I 
should  know  it. 


SCKNB  xiii.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  33 

HIPP.  Give  me  your  hand,  then,  as  far  as  the  church,15 
and  I  will  tell  it  you  as  we  go 

LEAND.  (  To  Mascarille}.  Go,  make  haste,  and  serve  me 
in  that  business  without  delay. 

SCENE  XL — MASCARILLE,  alone. 

Yes,  I  will  serve  you  up  a  dish  of  my  own  dressing. 
Was  there  ever  in  the  world  so  lucky  a  fellow.  How 
delighted  Lelio  will  be  soon  !  His  mistress  to  fall  into  our 
hands  by  these  means !  To  derive  his  whole  happiness  from 
the  man  he  would  have  expected  to  ruin  him!  To  become 
happy  by  the  hands  of  a  rival!  After  this  great  exploit,  I 
desire  that  due  preparations  be  made  to  paint  me  as  a  hero 
crowned  with  laurel,  and  that  underneath  the  portrait  be 
inscribed  in  letters  of  gold  :  Vivat  Mascarillus,  rogum  im- 
perator. 

SCENE  XII. — TRUFALDIN,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Soho,  there! 

TRUF.  What  do  you  want? 

MASC.  This  ring,  which  you  know,  will  inform  you 
what  business  brings  me  hither. 

TRUF.  Yes,  I  recognise  that  ring  perfectly ;  stay  a  little, 
I  will  fetch  you  the  slave. 

SCENE  XIII. — TRUFALDIN,   A  MESSENGER,  MASCARILLE. 

MESS.  (To  Trufaldin).  Do  me  the  favor,  sir,  to  tell  me 
where  lives  a  gentleman  .... 

TRUF.  What  gentleman  ? 

MESS.  I  think  his  name  is  Trufaldin. 

TRUF.  And  what  is  your  business  with  him,  pray?  I 
am  he. 

MESS.   Only  to  deliver  this  letter  to  him. 

TRUF.  (Reads).  "Providence,  whose  goodness  watches 
over  my  life,  has  just  brought  to  my  ears  a  most  welcome 
report,  that  my  daughter,  who  was  stolen  from  me  by  some 
robbers  when  she  was  four  years  old,  is  now  a  slave  at  your 


15  Generally  it  was  thought  preferable,  during  Moliere's  lifetime,  to  use 
the  word  temple  tor  "  church,"  instead  oieglise. 

VOL.  I.  C 


34  THE  BLUNDERER:  [AC™. 

house,  under  the  name  of  Celia.  If  ever  you  knew  what  ii 
was  to  be  a  father,  and  if  natural  affection  makes  an  impres- 
sion on  your  heart,  then  keep  in  your  house  this  child  so  dear 
to  me,  and  treat  her  as  if  she  were  your  own  flesh  and  blood. 
I  am  preparing  to  set  out  myself  in  order  to  fetch  her.  You 
shall  be  so  well  rewarded  for  your  trouble,  that  in  everything 
that  relates  to  your  happiness  (which  I  am  determined  to 
advance}  you  shall  have  reason  to  bless  the  day  in  which  you 
caused  mine." 

DON  PEDRO  DE  GUSMAN, 
From  Madrid.  Marquess  of  MONT  ALCANA. 

Though  the  gipsies  can  be  seldom  believed,  yet  they  who 
sold  her  to  me  told  me  she  would  soon  be  fetched  by 
somebody,  and  that  I  should  have  no  reason  to  complain. 
Yet  here  I  was  going,  all  through  my  impatience,  to  lose 
the  fruits  of  a  great  expectation.  (To  the  Messenger). 
Had  you  come  but  one  moment  later,  your  journey  would 
have  been  in  vain ;  I  was  going,  this  very  instant,  to  give 
the  girl  up  into  this  gentleman's  hands ;  but  it  is  well,  I 
shall  take  great  care  of  her.  {Exit  Messenger}.  {To 
Mascarille).  You  yourself  have  heard  what  this  letter  says, 
so  you  may  tell  the  person  who  sent  you  that  I  cannot 
keep  my  word,  and  that  he  had  better  come  and  receive 
his  money  back. 

MASC.  But  the  way  you  insult  him  .  .  . 

TRUF.  Go  about  your  business,  and  no  more  words. 

MASC.  (Alone).  Oh,  what  a  curse  that  this  letter  came 
now !  Fate  is  indeed  against  me.  What  bad  luck  for 
this  messenger  to  come  from  Spain  when  he  was  not 
wanted  !  May  thunder  and  hail  go  with  him !  Never, 
certainly,  had  so  happy  a  beginning  such  a  sad  ending  in 
so  short  a  time. 

SCENE  XIV. — LELIO  laughing,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  What  may  be  the  cause  of  all  this  mirth  ? 

LEL.  Let  me  have  my  laugh  out  before  I  tell  you. 

MASC.  Let  us  laugh  then  heartily,  we  have  abundant 
cause  so  to  do. 

LEL.  Oh !  I  shall  no  longer  be  the  object  of  your  ex- 
postulations :  you  who  always  reproach  me  shall  no  longer 


SCENE  xiv.]  OR,   THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  35 

say  that  I  am  marrying  all  your  schemes,  like  a  busy-body 
as  I  am.  I  myself  have  played  one  of  the  cleverest  tricks 
in  the  world.  It  is  true  I  am  quick-tempered,  and  now 
and  then  rather  too  hasty  ;  but  yet,  when  I  have  a  mind 
to  it,  I  can  plan  as  many  tricks  as  any  man  alive ;  even 
you  shall  own  that  what  I  have  done  shows  an  amount  of 
sharpness  rarely  to  be  met  with. 

MASC-  Let  us  hear  what  tricks  you  have  invented. 

LEL.  Just  now,  being  terribly  frightened  on  seeing 
Trufaldin  along  with  my  rival,  I  was  casting  about  to  find 
a  remedy  for  that  mischief,  when,  calling  all  my  invention 
to  my  aid,  I  conceived,  digested,  and  perfected  a  stra- 
tagem, before  which  all  yours,  however  vain  you  may  be 
of  them,  ought  undoubtedly  to  lower  their  colours. 

MASC.  But  what  may  this  be  ? 

LEL.  May  it  please  you  to  have  a  little  patience.  With- 
out much  delay  I  invented  a  letter,  written  by  an  imagi- 
nary nobleman  to  Trufaldin,  setting  forth  that,  having 
fortunately  heard  that  a  certain  slave,  who  lives  in  the 
latter's  house,  and  is  named  Celia,  was  this  grandee's 
daughter  formerly  kidnapped  by  thieves,  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  come  and  fetch  her ;  and  he  entreats  him  at  least 
to  keep  her  and  take  great  care  of  her ;  for,  that  on  her 
account  he  was  setting  out  from  Spain,  and  would  acknow- 
ledge his  civility  by  such  handsome  presents,  that  he 
should  never  regret  being  the  means  of  making  him  happy. 

MASC.  Mighty  well. 

LEL.  Hear  me  out ;  here  is  something  much  cleverer 
still.  The  letter  I  speak  of  was  delivered  to  him,  but  can 
you  imagine  how  ?  Only  just  in  time,  for  the  messenger 
told  me,  had  it  not  been  for  this  droll  device,  a  fellow, 
who  looked  very  foolish,  was  waiting  to  carry  her  off  that 
identical  moment. 

MASC.  And  you  did  all  this  without  the  help  of  the  devil  ? 

LEL.  Yes.  Would  you  have  believed  me  capable  of 
such  a  subtle  piece  of  wit  ?  At  least  praise  my  skill,  and 
the  dexterity  with  which  I  have  ^utterly  disconcerted  the 
scheme  of  my  rival. 

MASC.  To  praise  you  as  you  deserve,  I  lack  eloquence ; 
and  feel  unequal  to  the  task.  Yes,  sufficiently  to  com- 
mend this  lofty  effort,  this  fine  stratagem  of  war  achieved 


36  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTIH. 

before  our  eyes,  this  grand  and  rare  effect  of  a  mind 
which  plans  as  many  tricks  as  any  man,  which  for  smart- 
ness yields  to  none  alive,  my  tongue  wants  words.  I 
wish  I  had  the  abilities  of  the  most  refined  scholars,  so 
that  I  might  tell  you  in  the  noblest  verse,  or  else  in 
learned  prose,  that  you  will  always  be,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing that  may  be  done,  the  very  same  you  have  been  all 
your  life  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  scatter-brain,  a  man  of  dis- 
tempered reason,  always  perplexed,  wanting  common 
sense,  a  man  of  left-handed  judgment,  a  meddler,  an  ass,  a 
blundering,  hare-brained,  giddy  fellow, — what  can  I  think 
of?  A  ...  a  hundred  times  worse  than  anything  I  can 
say.  This  is  only  an  abridgement  of  your  panegyric. 

LEL.  Tell  me,  what  puts  you  in  such  a  passion  with 
me  ?  Have  I  done  anything  ?  Clear  up  this  matter. 

MASC.  No,  you  have  done  nothing  at  all ;  but  do  not 
come  after  me. 

LEL.  I  will  follow  you  all  over  the  world  to  find  out 
this  mystery. 

MASC.  Do  so.  Come  on,  then ;  get  your  legs  in  order, 
I  shall  give  you  an  opportunity  to  exercise  them. 

LEL.  (Alone).  He  has  got  away  from  me  !  O  misfortune 
which  cannot  be  allayed  !  What  am  I  to  understand  by 
his  discourse  ?  And  what  harm  can  I  possibly  have  done 
to  myself? 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — MASCARILLE,  alone.16 

Silence,  my  good  nature,  and  plead  no  more;  you  are  a 
fool,  and  I  am  determined  not  to  do  it.  Yes,  my  anger, 
you  are  right,  I  confess  it !  To  be  for  ever  doing  what  a 
meddler  undoes,  is  showing  too  much  patience,  and  I  ought 
to  give  it  up  after  the  glorious  attempts  he  has  marred.  But 
let  us  argue  the  matter  a  little  without  passion  ;  if  I  should 
now  give  way  to  my  just  impatience  the  world  will  say  I 
sank  under  difficulties,  that  my  cunning  was  completely 
exhausted.  What  then  becomes  of  that  public  esteem, 

16  Compare  Launcelot  Gobbo's  speech  about  his  conscience  in  Shak- 
speare's  Merchant  of  Venice  (\\.z). 


SCENB  n.J  OR,   THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  37 

which  extols  you  everywhere  as  a  first-rate  rogue,  and 
which  you  have  acquired  upon  so  many  occasions,  because 
you  never  yet  were  found  wanting  in  inventions?  Honour, 
Mascarille,  is  a  fine  thing :  do  not  pause  in  your  noble 
labours ;  and  whatever  a  master  may  have  done  to  incense 
you,  complete  your  work,  for  your  own  glory,  and  not  to 
oblige  him.  But  what  success  can  you  expect,  if  you  are 
thus  continually  crossed  by  your  evil  genius  ?  You  see  he 
compels  you  every  moment  to  change  your  tone ;  you  may 
as  well  hold  water  in  a  sieve  as  try  to  stop  that  resistless 
torrent,  which  in  a  moment  overturns  the  most  beautiful 
structures  raised  by  your  art.  Well,  once  more,  out  of 
kindness,  and  whatever  may  happen,  let  us  take  some  pains, 
even  if  they  are  in  vain ;  yet,  if  he  still  persists  in  baffling 
my  designs,  then  I  shall  withdraw  all  assistance.  After  all, 
our  affairs  are  not  going  on  badly,  if  we  could  but  supplant 
our  rival,  and  if  Leander,  at  last  weary  of  his  pursuit, 
would  leave  us  one  whole  day  for  my  intended  operations. 
Yes,  I  have  a  most  ingenious  plot  in  my  head,  from  which 
I  expect  a  glorious  success,  if  I  had  no  longer  that  obstacle 
in  my  way.  Well,  let  us  see  if  he  still  persists  in  his  love. 

SCENE  II. — LEANDER,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Sir,  I  have  lost  my  labour ;  Trufaldin  will  not 
keep  his  word. 

LEAND.  He  himself  has  told  me  the  whole  affair ;  but, 
what  is  more,  I  have  discovered  that  all  this  pretty  rigma- 
role about  Celia  being  carried  off  by  gypsies,  and  having 
a  great  nobleman  for  her  father,  who  is  setting  out  from 
Spain  to  come  hither,  is  nothing  but  a  mere  stratagem,  a 
merry  trick,  a  made-up  story,  a  tale  raised  by  Lelio  to 
prevent  my  buying  Celia. 

MASC.  Here  is  roguery  for  you  ! 

LEAND.  And  yet  this  ridiculous  story  has  produced 
such  an  impression  on  Trufaldin,  and  he  has  swallowed 
the  bait  of  this  shallow  device  so  greedilv,  that  he  will  not 
allow  himself  to  be  undeceived. 

MASC.  So  that  henceforth  he  will  watch  her  carefully. 
I  do  not  see  we  can  do  anything  more. 

LEAND.  If  at  first  I  thought  this  girl  amiable,  I  now 
find  her  absolutely  adorable,  and  I  am  in  doubt  whether  I 


38  THE   BLUNDERER:  [ACT  m. 

ought  not  to  employ  extreme  measures  to  make  her  my 
own,  thwart  her  ill  fortune  by  plighting  her  my  troth,  and 
turn  her  present  chains  into  matrimonial  ones. 

MASC.  Would  you  marry  her  ? 

LEAND.  I  am  not  yet  determined,  but  if  her  origin  is 

somewhat  obscure,  her  charms  and  her  virtue  are  gentle  at- 

ractions,  which  have  incredible  force  to  allure  every  heart. 

MASC.  Did  you  not  mention  her  virtue  ? 

LEAND.  Ha!  what  is  that  you  mutter?  Out  with  it; 
explain  what  you  mean  by  repeating  that  word  "virtue." 

MASC.  Sir,  your  countenance  changes  all  of  a  sudden ; 
perhaps  I  had  much  better  hold  my  tongue. 

LEAND.   No,  no,  speak  out. 

MASC.  Well,  then,  out  of  charity  I  will  cure  you  of 
your  blindness.  That  girl.  .  .  . 

LEAND.  Proceed. 

MASC.  So  far  from  being  merciless,  makes  no  difficulty 
in  obliging  some  people  in  private ;  you  may  believe  me, 
after  all  she  is  not  stony-hearted,  to  any  one  who  knows 
how  to  take  her  in  the  right  mood.  She  looks  demure, 
and  would  fain  pass  for  a  prude ;  but  I  can  speak  of  her 
on  sure  grounds.  You  know  I  understand  something  of 
the  craft,  and  ought  to  know  that  kind  of  cattle. 

LEAND.  What !   Celia  ?  .   .  . 

MASC.  Yes,  her  modesty  is  nothing  but  a  mere  sham, 
the  semblance  of  a  virtue  which  will  never  hold  out,  but 
vanishes,  as  any  one  may  discover,  before  the  shining 
rays11  emitted  from  a  purse. 

LEAND.  Heavens  !  What  do  you  tell  me  ?  Can  I  be- 
lieve such  words  ? 

MASC.  Sir,  there  is  no  compulsion ;  what  does  it  matter 
to  me  ?  No,  pray  do  not  believe  me,  follow  your  own  in- 
clination, take  the  sly  girl  and  marry  her  ;  the  whole  city, 
in  a  body,  will  acknowledge  this  favour ;  you  marry  the 
public  good  in  her. 

LEAND.  What  a  strange  surprise  ! 

1T  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  rays  of  the  sun,  placed  above  the  crown, 
and  stamped  on  all  golden  crown-pieces,  struck  in  France  from  Louis  XI. 
(November  a,  1475)  until  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.  These 
crowns  were  called  ecus  au  soleil.  Louis  XIV.  took  much  later  for  his 
device  the  sun  shining  in  full,  with  the  motto,  Nee pluribvs  imfar. 


SCENE  in.]  OR,   THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  39 

MASC.  (Aside).  He  has  taken  the  bait.  Courage,  my 
lad ;  if  he  does  but  swallow  it  in  good  earnest,  we  shall 
have  got  rid  of  a  very  awkward  obstruction  on  our  path. 

LEAND.  This  astonishing  account  nearly  kills  me. 

MASC.  What  !     Can  you  .  .  . 

LEAND.  Go  to  the  post-office,  and  see  if  there  is  a  letter 
for  me.  (Alone,  and  for  a  while  lost  in  thought).  Who 
would  not  have  been  imposed  upon  ?  If  what  he  says 
be  true,  then  there  never  was  any  countenance  more  de- 
ceiving. 

SCENE  III. — LELIO,  LEANDER. 

LEL.  What  may  be  the  cause  of  your  looking  so  sad  ? 

LEAND.  Who,  I? 

LEL.  Yes,  yourself. 

LEAND.  I  have,  however,  no  occasion  to  be  so. 

LEL.  I  see  well  enough  what  it  is ;  Celia  is  the  cause 
of  it. 

LEAND.  My  mind  does  not  run  upon  such  trifles. 

LEL.  And  yet  you  had  formed  some  grand  scheme  to 
get  her  into  your  hands ;  but  you  must  speak  thus,  as  your 
stratagem  has  miscarried. 

LEAND.  Were  I  fool  enough  to  be  enamoured  of  her,  I 
should  laugh  at  all  your  finesse. 

LEL.  What  finesse,  pray  ? 

LEAND.   Good  Heavens  !  sir,  we  know  all. 

LEL.  All  what? 

LEAND.  All  your  actions,  from  beginning  to  end. 

LEL.  This  is  all  Greek  to  me ;  I  do  not  understand  one 
word  of  it. 

LEAND.  Pretend,  if  you  please,  not  to  understand  me  ; 
but  believe  me,  do  not  apprehend  that  I  shall  take  a  pro- 
perty which  I  should  be  sorry  to  dispute  with  you.  I 
adore  a  beauty  who  has  not  been  sullied,  and  do  not  wish 
to  love  a  depraved  woman. 

LEL.  Gently,  gently,  Leander. 

LEAND.  Oh  !  how  credulous  you  are  !  I  tell  you  once 
more,  you  may  attend  on  her  now  without  suspecting 
anybody.  You  may  call  yourself  a  lady-killer.  It  is  true, 
her  beauty  is  very  uncommon,  but,  to  make  amends  for 
that,  the  rest  is  common  enough. 


40  THE   BLUNDERER :  [ACT  HI. 

LEL.  Leander,  no  more  of  this  provoking  language. 
Strive  against  me  as  much  as  you  like  in  order  to  obtain 
her  ;  but,  above  all  things,  do  not  traduce  her  so  vilely. 
I  should  consider  myself  a  great  coward  if  I  could  tamely 
submit  to  hear  my  earthly  deity  slandered.  I  can  much 
better  bear  your  rivalry  than  listen  to  any  speech  that 
touches  her  character. 

LEAND.  What  I  state  here  I  have  from  very  good  au- 
thority. 

LEL.  Whoever  told  you  so  is  a  scoundrel  and  a  rascal. 
Nobody  can  discover  the  least  blemish  in  this  young  lady ; 
I  know  her  heart  well. 

LEAND.  But  yet  Mascarille  is  a  very  competent  judge  in 
such  a  cause  ;  he  thinks  her  guilty. 

LEL.  He? 

LEAND.  He  himself. 

LEL.  Does  he  pretend  impudently  to  slander  a  most 
respectable  young  lady,  thinking,  perhaps,  I  should  only 
laugh  at  it  ?  I  will  lay  you  a  wager  he  eats  his  words. 

LEAND.  I  will  lay  you  a  wager  he  does  not. 

LEL.  'Sdeath !  I  would  break  every  bone  in  his  body 
should  he  dare  to  assert  such  lies  to  me. 

LEAND.  And  I  will  crop  his  ears,  if  he  does  not  prove 
every  syllable  he  has  told  me. 

SCENE  IV. — LELIO,  LEANDER,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  Oh  !  that's  lucky ;  there  he  is.  Come  hither,  cur- 
sed hangdog ! 

MASC.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

LEL.  You  serpent's  tongue  !  so  full  of  lies  !  dare  you 
fasten  your  stings  on  Celia,  and  slander  the  most  consum- 
mate virtue  that  ever  added  lustre  to  misfortune  ? 

MASC.  (In  a  whisper  to  Lelio).  Gently  ;  I  told  him  so 
on  purpose. 

LEL.  No,  no ;  none  of  your  winking,  and  none  of  your 
jokes.  I  am  blind  and  deaf  to  all  you  do  or  say.  If  it 
were  my  own  brother  he  should  pay  dear  for  it ;  for  to 
dare  defame  her  whom  I  adore  is  to  wound  me  in  the  most 
tender  part.  You  make  all  these  signs  in  vain.  What 
was  it  you  said  to  him  ? 


SCBNB  iv.]  OR,   THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  41 

MASC.  Good  Heavens  !   do  not  quarrel,  or  I  shall  leave 
you. 

LEL.  You  shall  not  stir  a  step. 

MASC.  Oh! 

LEL.  Speak  then  ;    confess. 

MASC.  {Whispering  to  Lelio}.  Let  me  alone.  I  tell 
you  it  is  a  stratagem. 

LEL.  Make  haste ;  what  was  it  you  said  ?  Clear  up 
this  dispute  between  us. 

MASC.  (/«  a  whisper  to  Lelid).  I  said  what  I  said.  Pray 
do  not  put  yourself  in  a  passion. 

LEL.  {Drawing  his  sword}.  I  shall  make  you  talk  in 
another  strain. 

LEAND.  (Stopping  him).  Stay  your  hand  a  little  ;  mode- 
rate your  ardour. 

MASC.  (Aside).  Was  there  ever  in  the  world  a  creature 
so  dull  of  understanding? 

LEL.   Allow  me  to  wreak  my  just  vengeance  on  him. 

LEAND.  It  is  rather  too  much  to  wish  to  chastise  him  in 
my  presence. 

LEL.  What !  have  I  no  right,  then,  to  chastise  my  own 
servant  ? 

LEAND.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  "your  servant  ?" 

MASC.  (Aside}.   He  is  at  it  again  !   He  will  discover  all. 

LEL.  Suppose  I  had  a  mind  to  thrash  him  within  an 
inch  of  his  life,  what  then  ?  He  is  my  own  servant. 

LEAND.  At  present  he  is  mine. 

LEL.  That  is  an  admirable  joke.  How  comes  he  to  be 
yours  ?  Surely  .  .  . 

MASC.   (In  a  whisper).     Gently. 

LEL.  What  are  you  whispering  ? 

MASC.  (Aside}.  Oh!  the  confounded  blockhead.  He 
is  going  to  spoil  everything,  He  understands  not  one  of 
my  signs. 

LEL.  You  are  dreaming,  Leander.  You  are  telling  me 
a  pretty  story !  Is  he  not  my  servant  ? 

LEAND.  Did  you  not  discharge  him  from  your  service 
for  some  fault  ? 

LEL.  I  do  not  know  what  this  means. 

LEAND.  And  did  you  not,  in  the  violence  of  your  pas- 
sion, make  his  back  smart  most  unmercifully  ? 


42  •  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  m. 

LEL.  No  such  thing.  I  discharge  him !  cudgel  him ! 
Either  you  make  a  jest  of  me,  Leander,  or  he  has  been 
making  a  jest  of  you. 

MASC.  (Aside).  Go  on,  go  on,  numskull ;  you  will  do 
your  own  business  effectually. 

LEAND.  (To  Mascarille).  Then  all  this  cudgelling  is 
purely  imaginary  ? 

MASC.  He  does  not  know  what  he  says  ;  his  memory  .  .  . 

LEAND.  No,  no ;  all  these  signs  do  not  look  well  for 
you.  I  suspect  some  prettily  contrived  trick  here ;  but 
for  the  ingenuity  of  the  invention,  go  your  ways,  I  forgive 
you.  It  is  quite  enough  that  I  am  undeceived,  and  see 
HOW  why  you  imposed  upon  me.  I  come  off  cheap,  be- 
cause I.  trusted  myself  to  your  hypocritical  zeal.  A  word 
to  the  wise  is  enough.  Farewell,  Lelio,  farewell ;  your 
most  obedient  servant. 

SCENE  V. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Take  courage,  my  boy,  may  fortune  ever  attend 
us  !  Let  us  draw  and  bravely  take  the  field ;  let  us  act 
Olibrius,  the  slayer  of  the  innocents™ 

LEL.  He  accused  you  of  slandering   .    . 

MASC.  And  you  could  not  let  the  artifice  pass,  nor  let 
him  remain  in  his  error,  which  did  you  good  service,  and 
which  pretty  nearly  extinguished  his  passion.  No,  honest 
soul,  he  cannot  bear  dissimulation.  I  cunningly  get  a  foot' 
ing  at  his  rival's,  who,  like  a  dolt,  was  going  to  place  his 
mistress  in  my  hands,  but  he,  Lelio,  prevents  me  getting 
hold  of  her  by  a  fictitious  letter ;  I  try  to  abate  the  passion 
of  his  rival,  my  hero  presently  comes  and  undeceives  him. 
In  vain  I  make  signs  to  him,  and  show  him  it  was  all  a 
contrivance  of  mine ;  it  signifies  nothing ;  he  continues 
to  the  end,  and  never  rests  satisfied  till  he  has  discovered 
all.  Grand  and  sublime  effect  of  a  mind  which  is  not  in- 
ferior to  any  man  living !  It  is  an  exquisite  piece,  and 
worthy,  in  troth,  to  be  made  a  present  of  to  the  king's 
private  museum. 

LEL.  I  am  not  surprised  that  I  do  not  come  up  to  your 

18  Olibrius  was,  according  to  ancient  legends,  a  Roman  governor  ol 
Gaul,  in  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Decius,  very  cruel,  and  a  great  boaster. 


SCBNK  v.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  43 

expectations  ;  if  1  am  not  acquainted  with  the  designs 
you  are  setting  on  foot,  I  shall  be  for  ever  making  mis- 
takes. 

MASC.  So  much  the  worse. 

LEL.  At  least,  if  you  would  be  justly  angry  with  me, 
give  me  a  little  insight  into  your  plan ;  but  if  I  am  kept 
ignorant  of  every  contrivance,  I  must  always  be  caught 
napping.19 

MASC.  I  believe  you  would  make  a  very  good  fencing- 
master,  because  you  are  so  skilful  at  making  feints,  and  at 
parrying  of  a  thrust.20 

LEL.  Since  the  thing  is  done,  let  us  think  no  more 
about  it.  My  rival,  however,  will  not  have  it  in  his 
power  to  cross  me,  and  provided  you  will  but  exert  your 
skill,  in  which  I  trust  .  .  . 

MASC.  Let  us  drop  this  discourse,  and  talk  of  something 
else  ;  I  am  not  so  easily  pacified,  not  I ;  I  am  in  too  great 
a  passion  for  that.  In  the  first  place,  you  must  do  me  a 
service,  and  then  we  shall  see  whether  I  ought  to  under- 
take the  management  of  your  amours. 

LEL.  If  it  only  depends  on  that,  I  will  do  it !  Tell  me, 
have  you  need  of  my  blood,  of  my  sword  ? 

MASC.  How  crack-brained  he  is!  You  are  just  like 
those  swashbucklers  who  are  always  more  ready  to  draw 
their  sword  than  to  produce  a  tester,  if  it  were  necessary 
to  give  it. 

LEL.  What  can  I  do,  then,  for  you? 


19  The  original  is,  je  suis  pris  sans  vert,  ''I  am  taken  without  green," 
because  in  the  month  of  May,  in  some  parts  of  France,  there  is  a  game 
which  binds  him  or  her  who  is  taken  without  a  green  leaf  about  them  to 
pay  a  forfeit. 

*°  In  the  original  we  find  prendre  les  contretemps,  and  rompre  les 
mesures.  In  a  little  and  very  curious  book,  "The  Scots  Fencing  Master, 
or  Compleat  Smal-Sword  Man,"  printed  in  Edinburgh  1687,  and  written 
by  Sir  William  Hope  of  Kirkliston,  the  contre-temps  is  said  to  be  :  "When 
a  man  thrusts  without  having  a  good  opportunity,  or  when  he  thrusts  at 
the  same  time  his  adversarie  thrusts,  and  that  each  of  them  at  that  time 
receive  a  thrust."  Breaking  of  measure  is,  according  to  the  same  booklet, 
done  thus:  "When  you  perceive  your  adversary  thrusting  at  you,  and 
you  are  not  very  certain  of  the  parade,  then  break  his  measure,  or  make 
his  thrust  short  of  you,  by  either  stepping  a  foot  or  half  a  foot  back,  with 
the  single  stepp,  for  if  you  judge  your  adversaiy's  distance  or  measure 
well,  half  a  foot  will  break  his  measure  as  well  as  ten  ells." 


44  THE   BLUNDERER :  [ACT  „,. 

MASC.  You  must,  without  delay,  endeavour  to  appease 
your  father's  anger. 

LEL.  We  have  become  reconciled  already. 

MASC.  Yes,  but  I  am  not ;  I  killed  him  this  morning 
for  your  sake  ;  the  very  idea  of  it  shocks  him.  Those 
sorts  of  jokes  are  severely  felt  by  such  old  fellows  as  he, 
which,  much  against  their  will,  make  them  reflect  sadly  on 
the  near  approach  of  death.  The  good  sire,  notwith- 
standing his  age,  is  very  fond  of  life,  and  cannot  bear 
jesting  upon  that  subject ;  he  is  alarmed  at  the  prognosti- 
cation, and  so  very  angry  that  I  hear  he  has  lodged  a  com- 
plaint against  me.  I  am  afraid  that  if  I  am  once  housed 
at  the  expense  of  the  king,  I  may  like  it  so  well  after  the 
first  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  I  shall  find  it  very  difficult 
afterwards  to  get  away.  There  have  been  several  warrants 
out  against  me  this  good  while ;  for  virtue  is  always  envied 
and  persecuted  in  this  abominable  age.  Therefore  go  and 
make  my  peace  with  your  father. 

LEL.  Yes,  I  shall  soften  his  anger,  but  you  must  promise 
me  then  .  .  . 

MASC.  We  shall  see  what  there  is  to  be  done.  (Exit 
Lelio).  Now,  let  us  take  a  little  breath  after  so  many 
fatigues;  let  us  stop  for  a  while  the  current  of  our  in- 
trigues, and  not  move  about  hither  and  thither  as  if  we 
were  hobgoblins.  Leander  cannot  hurt  us  now,  and  Celia 
cannot  be  removed,  through  the  contrivance  of  ... 

SCENE  VI. — ERGASTE,  MASCARILLE. 

ERG.  I  was  looking  for  you  everywhere  to  render  you  a 
service.  I  have  a  secret  of  importance  to  disclose. 

MASC.  What  may  that  be  ? 

ERG.   Can  no  one  overhear  us? 

MASC.  Not  a  soul. 

ERG.  We  are  as  intimate  as  two  people  can  be ;  I  am 
acquainted  with  all  your  projects,  and  the  love  of  your 
master.  Mind  what  you  are  about  by  and  by;  Leander 
has  formed  a  plot  to  carry  off  Celia ;  I  have  been  told  he 
has  arranged  everything,  and  designs  to  get  into  Trufal- 
din's  house  in  disguise,  having  heard  that  at  this  time  of 
the  year  some  ladies  of  the  neighbourhood  often  visit  him 
in  the  evening  in  masks. 


SCENE  vin. J  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  45 

MASC.  Ay,  well !  He  has  not  yet  reached  the  height  of 
his  happiness;  I  may  perhaps  be  beforehand  with  him; 
and  as  to  this  thrust,  I  know  how  to  give  him  a  counter- 
thrust,  by  which  he  may  run  himself  through.  He  is  not 
aware  with  what  gifts  I  am  endowed.  Farewell,  we  shall 
take  a  cup  together  next  time  we  meet. 

SCENE  VII. — MASCARILLE,  alone. 

We  must,  we  must  reap  all  possible  benefit  from  this 
amorous  scheme,  and  by  a  dexterous  and  uncommon 
counterplot  endeavour  to  make  the  success  our  own,  with- 
out any  danger.  If  I  put  on  a  mask  and  be  beforehand 
with  Leander,  he  will  certainly  not  laugh  at  us ;  if  we 
take  the  prize  ere  he  comes  up,  he  will  have  paid  for  us 
the  expenses  of  the  expedition  ;  for,  as  his  project  has 
already  become  known,  suspicion  will  fall  upon  him ;  and 
we,  being  safe  from  all  pursuit,  need  not  fear  the  conse- 
quences of  that  dangerous  enterprise  Thus  we  shall  not 
show  ourselves,  but  use  a  cat's  paw  to  take  the  chesnuts 
out  of  the  fire.  Now,  then,  let  us  go  and  disguise  our- 
selves with  some  good  fellows ;  we  must  not  delay  if  we 
wish  to  be  beforehand  with  our  gentry.  I  love  to  strike 
while  the  iron  is  hot,  and  can,  without  much  difficulty, 
provide  in  one  moment  men  and  dresses.  Depend  upon 
it,  I  do  not  let  my  skill  lie  dormant.  If  Heaven  has  en- 
dowed me  with  the  gift  of  knavery,  I  am  not  one  of  those 
degenerate  minds  who  hide  the  talents  they  have  received. 

SCENE  VIII. — LELIO,  ERGASTE. 

LEL.  He  intends  to  carry  her  off  during  a  masquerade  ! 

ERG.  There  is  nothing  more  certain ;  one  of  his  band 
informed  me  of  his  design,  upon  which  I  instantly  ran  to 
Mascarille  and  told  him  the  whole  affair ;  he  said  he  would 
spoil  their  sport  by  some  counter-scheme  which  he  planned 
in  an  instant ;  so  meeting  with  you  by  chance,  I  thought 
I  ought  to  let  you  know  the  whole. 

LEL.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  piece  of 
news  ;  go,  I  shall  not  forget  this  faithful  service. 

[JSxt't  Ergaste. 


46  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  in. 

SCENE  IX. — LELIO,  alone. 

My  rascal  will  certainly  play  them  some  trick  or  other ; 
but  I,  too,  have  a  mind  to  assist  him  in  his  project.  It 
shall  never  be  said  that,  in  a  business  which  so  nearly 
concerns  me,  I  stirred  no  more  than  a  post ;  this  is  the 
time ;  they  will  be  surprised  at  the  sight  of  me.  Why  did 
I  not  take  my  blunderbuss  with  me  ?  But  let  anybody 
attack  me  who  likes,  I  have  two  good  pistols  and  a  trusty 
sword.  So  ho  !  within  there  ;  a  word  with  you. 

SCENE  X. — TRUFALDIN  at  his  window,  LELIO. 

TRUF.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Who  comes  to  pay  me  a 
visit  ? 

LEL.  Keep  your  door  carefully  shut  to-night. 

TRUF.  Why? 

LEL.  There  are  certain  people  coming  masked  to  give 
you  a  sorry  kind  of  serenade ;  they  intend  to  carry  off 
Celia. 

TRUF.  Good  Heavens ! 

LEL.  No  doubt  they  will  soon  be  here.  Keep  where 
you  are,  you  may  see  everything  from  your  window. 
Hey  !  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ?  Do  you  not  see  them 
already?  Hist!  I  will  affront  them  before  your  face. 
We  shall  see  some  fine  fun,  if  they  do  not  give  way.21 

SCENE  XL  —  LELIO,  TRUFALDIN,  MASCARILLE,  and  his 
company  masked, 

TRUF.  Oh,  the  funny  blades,  who  think  to  surprise  me. 

LEL.  Maskers,  whither  so  fast  ?  Will  you  let  me  into 
the  secret  ?  Trufaldin,  pray  open  the  door  to  these  gentry, 
that  they  may  challenge  us  fora  throw  with  the  dice.22  (  To 

21This  is  one  of  the  passages  of  Moliere  about  which  commentators 
do  not  agree;  the  original  is,  nous  aliens  -voir  beau  jeu,  st  la  corde  ne 
rompt.  Some  maintain  that  corde  refers  to  the  tight  rope  of  a  rope 
dancer;  others  that  corde  means  the  string  of  a  bow,  as  in  the  phrase 
avoir  deux  cordes  a  son  arc,  to  have  two  strings  (resources)  to  one's 
bow.  Mons.  Eugene  Despois,  in  his  carefully  edited  edition  of  Moliere, 
(i.,  187),  defends  the  latter  reading,  and  I  agree  with  him. 

22  The  original  has  jouer  un  momon.  Guy  Miege,  in  his  Dictionary  of 
barbarous  French,  London,  1679,  has  "Mammon, a  mummer, also  a  com- 
pany of  mummers  ;  also  a  visard,  or  mask  ;  also  a  let  by  a  mummer  at 
dice." 


SCBNK  XHI.]  OR,  THE    COUNTERPLOTS.  47 

Mascarille,  disguised  as  a  woman).  Good  Heavens  !  What 
a  pretty  creature  !  What  a  darling  she  looks  !  How  now  ! 
What  are  you  mumbling?  Without  offence,  may  I  re- 
move your  mask  and  see  your  face. 

TRUF.  Hence  !  ye  wicked  rogues ;  begone,  ye  raga- 
muffins !  And  you,  sir,  good  night,  and  many  thanks. 

SCENE  XII. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  {After  having  taken  the  mask  from  Mascarille' s 
face).  Mascarille,  is  it  you  ? 

MASC.   No,  not  at  all ;  it  is  somebody  else. 

LEL.  Alas  !  How  astonished  I  am  !  How  adverse  is 
our  fate  !  Could  I  possibly  have  guessed  this,  as  you  did 
not  secretly  inform  me  that  you  were  going  to  disguise 
yourself?  Wretch  that  I  am,  thoughtlessly  to  play  you 
such  a  trick,  while  you  wore  this  mask.  I  am  in  an  awful 
passion  with  myself,  and  have  a  good  mind  to  give  myself 
a  sound  beating. 

MASC.  Farewell,  most  refined  wit,  unparalleled  inventive 
genius. 

LEL.  Alas !  If  your  anger  deprives  me  of  your  assist- 
ance, what  saint  shall  I  invoke  ? 

MASC.  Beelzebub. 

LEL.  Ah  !  If  your  heart  is  not  made  of  stone  or  iron, 
do  once  more  at  least  forgive  my  imprudence ;  if  it  is 
necessary  to  be  pardoned  that  I  should  kneel  before  you, 
behold  .  .  . 

MASC.  Fiddlesticks  !  Come,  my  boys,  let  us  away  ;  I 
hear  some  other  people  coming  closely  behind  us. 

SCENE  XIII.  —  LEANDER   and  his   company  masked; 
TRUFALDIN  at  the  window. 

LEAND.  Softly,  let  us  do  nothing  but  in  the  gentlest 
manner. 

TRUF.  {At  the  window).  How  is  this?  What  !  mum- 
mers besieging  my  door  all  night.  Gentlemen,  do  not 
catch  a  cold  gratuitously ;  every  one  who  is  catching  it 
here  must  have  plenty  of  time  to  lose.  It  is  rather  a  little 
too  late  to  take  Celia  along  with  you ;  she  begs  you  will 
excuse  her  to-night ;  the  girl  is  in  bed  and  cannot  speak 
to  you ;  I  am  very  sorry ;  but  to  repay  you  for  all  the 


48  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTW. 

trouble  you  have  taken  for  her  sake,  she  begs  you  will  be 
pleased  to  accept  this  pot  of  perfume. 

LEAND.  Faugh !  That  does  not  smell  nicely.  My 
clothes  are  all  spoiled  ;  we  are  discovered  ;  let  us  be  gone 
this  way. 

ACT   IV. 
SCENE  I. — LELIO,  disguised  as  an  Armenian;  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  You  are  dressed  in  a  most  comical  fashion. 

LEL.  I  had  abandoned  all  hope,  but  you  have  revived 
it  again  by  this  contrivance. 

MASC.  My  anger  is  always  too  soon  over ;  it  is  vain  to 
swear  and  curse,  I  can  never  keep  to  my  oaths. 

LEL.  Be  assured  that  if  ever  it  lies  in  my  power  you 
shall  be  satisfied  with  the  proofs  of  my  gratitude,  and 
though  I  had  but  one  piece  of  bread  .  .  . 

MASC.  Enough:  Study  well  this  new  project;  for  if 
you  commit  now  any  blunder,  you  cannot  lay  the  blame 
upon  ignorance  of  the  plot ;  you  ought  to  know  your  part 
in  the  play  perfectly  by  heart. 

LEL.  But  how  did  Trufaldin  receive  you  ? 

MASC.  I  cozened  the  good  fellow  with  a  pretended  zeal 
for  his  interests.  I  went  with  alacrity  to  tell  him  that, 
unless  he  took  very  great  care,  some  people  would  come 
and  surprise  him ;  that  from  different  quarters  they  had 
designs  upon  her  of  whose  origin  a  letter  had  given  a  false 
account ;  that  they  would  have  liked  to  draw  me  in  for  a 
share  in  the  business,  but  that  I  kept  well  out  of  it ;  and 
that,  being  full  of  zeal  for  what  so  nearly  concerned  him, 
I  came  to  give  him  timely  notice  that  he  might  take  his 
precautions.  Then,  moralizing,  I  discoursed  solemnly 
about  the  many  rogueries  one  sees  every  day  here  below ; 
that,  as  for  me,  being  tired  with  the  world  and  its  in- 
famies, I  wished  to  work  out  my  soul's  salvation,  retire 
from  all  its  noise,  and  live  with  some  worthy  honest  man, 
with  whom  I  could  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  in  peace ; 
that,  if  he  had  no  objection,  I  should  desire  nothing  more 
than  to  pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  with  him ;  that  I 
had  taken  such  a  liking  to  him,  that,  without  asking  for 
any  wages  to  serve  him,  I  was  ready  to  place  in  his  hands, 
knowing  it  to  be  safe  there,  some  property  my  father  had 


SCKNBI.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  49 

left  me,  as  well  as  my  savings,  which  I  was  fully  deter- 
mined to  leave  to  him  alone,  if  it  pleased  Heaven  to  take 
me  hence.  That  was  the  right  way  to  gain  his  affection. 
You  and  your  beloved  should  decide  what  means  to  use  to 
attain  your  wishes.  I  was  anxious  to  arrange  a  secret 
interview  between  you  two ;  he  himself  has  contrived  to 
show  me  a  most  excellent  method,  by  which  you  may 
fairly  and  openly  stay  in  her  house.  Happening  to  talk 
to  me  about  a  son  he  had  lost,  and  whom  he  dreamt  last 
night  had  come  to  life  again,  he  told  me  the  following 
story,  upon  which,  just  now,  I  founded  my  stratagem. 

LEL.  Enough  ;  I  know  it  all ;  you  have  told  it  me 
twice  already.23 

MASC.  Yes,  yes ;  but  even  if  I  should  tell  it  thrice,  it 
may  happen  still,  that  with  all  your  conceit,  you  might 
break  down  in  some  minor  detail. 

LEL.  I  long  to  be  at  it  already. 

MASC.  Pray,  not  quite  so  fast,  for  fear  we  might  stumble. 
Your  skull  is  rather  thick,  therefore  you  should  be  per- 
fectly well  instructed  in  your  part.  Some  time  ago 
Trufaldin  left  Naples;  his  name  was  then  Zanobio  Ruberti. 
Being  suspected  in  his  native  town  of  having  participated 
in  a  certain  rebellion,  raised  by  some  political  faction 
(though  really  he  is  not  a  man  to  disturb  any  state),  he 
was  obliged  to  quit  it  stealthily  by  night,  leaving  behind 
him  his  daughter,  who  was  very  young,  and  his  wife. 
Some  time  afterwards  he  received  the  news  that  they  were 
both  dead,  and  in  this  perplexity,  wishing  to  take  with 
him  to  some  other  town,  not  only  his  property,  but  also 
the  only  one  who  was  left  of  all  his  family,  his  young  son, 
a  schoolboy,  called  Horatio,  he  wrote  to  Bologna,  where 
a  certain  tutor,  named  Alberto,  had  taken  the  boy  when 
very  young,  to  finish  there  his  education ;  but  though  for 
two  whole  years  he  appointed  several  times  to  meet  them, 
they  never  made  their  appearance.  Believing  them  to  be 

m  Though  Lelio  says  to  Mascarille,  "  Enough,  I  know  it  all,"  he  has 
not  been  listening  to  the  speech  of  his  servant,  but,  in  the  meanwhile,  is 
arranging  his  dress,  and  smoothing  his  ruffles,  and  making  it  clear  to  the 
spectator  that  he  knows  nothing,  and  that  he  will  be  a  bad  performer  of 
the  part  assigned  to  him.  This  explains  the  blunders  he  makes  afterwards 
in  the  second  and  fifth  scenes  of  the  same  act. 

VOL.  I.  j 


50  THE   BLUNDERER :  [ACT  ,v. 

dead,  after  so  long  a  time,  he  came  to  this  city,  where  he 
took  the  name  he  now  bears,  without  for  twelve  years 
ever  having  discovered  any  traces  of  this  Alberto,  or  of 
his  son  Horatio.  This  is  the  substance  of  the  story,  which 
I  have  repeated  so  that  you  may  better  remember  the 
groundwork  of  the  plot.  Now,  you  are  to  personate  an 
Armenian  merchant,  who  has  seen  them  both  safe  and 
sound  in  Turkey.  If  I  have  invented  this  scheme,  in 
preference  to  any  other,  of  bringing  them  to  life  again 
according  to  his  dream,  it  is  because  it  is  very  common 
in  adventures  for  people  to  be  taken  at  sea  by  some 
Turkish  pirate,  and  afterwards  restored  to  their  families 
in  the  very  nick  of  time,  when  thought  lost  for  fifteen  or 
twenty  years.  For  my  part,  I  have  heard  a  hundred  of 
that  kind  of  stories.  Without  giving  ourselves  the  trouble 
of  inventing  something  fresh,  let  us  make  use  of  this  one  ; 
what  does  it  matter  ?  You  must  say  you  heard  the  story 
of  their  being  made  slaves  from  their  own  mouths,  and 
also  that  you  lent  them  money  to  pay  their  ransom ;  but 
that  as  urgent  business  obliged  you  to  set  out  before  them, 
Horatio  asked  you  to  go  and  visit  his  father  here,  whose 
adventures  he  was  acquainted  with,  and  with  whom  you 
were  to  stay  a  few  days  till  their  arrival.  I  have  given  you 
a  long  lesson  now. 

LEL.  These  repetitions  are  superfluous.  From  the  very 
beginning  I  understood  it  all. 

MASC.  I  shall  go  in  and  prepare  the  way. 

LEL.  Listen,  Mascarille,  there  is  only  one  thing  that 
troubles  me ;  suppose  he  should  ask  me  to  describe  his 
son's  countenance  ? 

MASC.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  answering  that  !  You 
know  he  was  very  little  when  he  saw  him  last.  Besides  it 
is  very  likely  that  increase  of  years  and  slavery  have  com- 
pletely changed  him. 

LEL.  That  is  true.  But  pray,  if  he  should  remember 
my  face,  what  must  I  do  then  ? 

MASC.  Have  you  no  memory  at  all  ?  I  told  you  just 
now,  that  he  has  merely  seen  you  for  a  minute,  that  there- 
fore you  could  only  have  produced  a  very  transient  im- 
pression on  his  mind ;  besides,  your  beard  and  dress  dis- 
guise you  completely. 


SCBNB  HI.J  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  5 1 

LSL.  Very  well.  But,  now  I  think  of  it,  what  part  of 
Turkey  .  .  .  ? 

MASC.   It  is  all  the  same,  I  tell  you,  Turkey  or  Barbary. 

LEL.  But  what  is  the  name  of  the  town  I  saw  them  in  ? 

MASC.  Tunis.  I  think  he  will  keep  me  till  night.  He 
tells  me  it  is  useless  to  repeat  that  name  so  often,  and  I  have 
already  mentioned  it  a  dozen  times. 

LEL.  Go,  go  in  and  prepare  matters ;  I  want  nothing 
more. 

MASC.  Be  cautious  at  least,  and  act  wisely.  Let  us  have 
none  of  your  inventions  here. 

LEL.  Let  me  alone  !     Trust  to  me,  I  say,  once  more. 

MASC.  Observe,  Horatio,  a  schoolboy  in  Bologna ;  Tru- 
faldin,  his  true  name  Zanobio  Ruberti,  a  citizen  of  Naples ; 
the  tutor  was  called  Alberto  .  .  . 

LEL.  You  make  me  blush  by  preaching  so  much  to  me ; 
do  you  think  I  am  a  fool  ? 

MASC.  No,  not  completely,  but  something  very  like  it. 

SCENE  II. — LELIO,  alone. 

When  I  do  not  stand  in  need  of  him  he  cringes,  but  now, 
because  he  very  well  knows  of  how  much  use  he  is  to  me, 
his  familiarity  indulges  in  such  remarks  as  he  just  now 
made.  I  shall  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  those  beautiful 
eyes,  which  hold  me  in  so  sweet  a  captivity,  and,  without 
hindrance,  depict  in  the  most  glaring  colours  the  tortures 
I  feel.  I  shall  then  know  my  fate.  .  .  .  But  here  they1 
are. 

SCENE  III. — TRUFALDIN,  LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

TRUF.  Thanks,  righteous  heaven,  for  this  favourable 
turn  of  my  fortune  ! 

MASC.  You  are  the  man  to  see  visions  and  dream 
dreams,  since  you  prove  how  untrue  is  the  saying  that 
dreams  are  falsehoods. 24 

TRUF.  How  can  I  thank  you  ?  what  returns  can  I  make 
you,  sir  ?  You,  whom  I  ought  to  style  the  messenger  sent 
from  Heaven  to  announce  my  happiness  ! 

24  In  French  there  is  a  play  on  words  between  songes,  dreams,  and 
mensonges,  falsehoods,  which  cannot  be  rendered  into  English. 


52  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  iv. 

LEL.  These  compliments  are  superfluous ;  I  can  dis- 
pense with  them. 

TRUF.  {To  Mascarille).  I  have  seen  somebody  like 
this  Armenian,  but  I  do  not  know  where. 

MASC.  That  is  what  I  was  saying,  but  one  sees  surpris- 
ing likenesses  sometimes. 

TRUF.  You  have  seen  that  son  of  mine,  in  whom  all  my 
hopes  are  centred  ? 

LEL.  Yes,  Signer  Trufaldin,  and  he  was  as  well  as  well 
can  be. 

TRUF.  He  related  to  you  his  life  and  spoke  much  about 
me,  did  he  not  ? 

LEL.  More  than  ten  thousand  times. 

MASC.  (Aside  to  Lelio}.  Not  quite  so  much,  I  should 
say. 

LEL.  He  described  you  just  as  I  see  you,  your  face,  your 
gait. 

TRUF.  Is  that  possible  ?  He  has  not  seen  me  since  he 
was  seven  years  old.  And  even  his  tutor,  after  so  long  a 
time,  would  scarcely  know  my  face  again. 

MASC.  One's  own  flesh  and  blood  never  forget  the 
image  of  one's  relations;  this  likeness  is  imprinted  so 
deeply,  that  my  father  .  .  . 

TRUF.  Hold  your  tongue.     Where  was  it  you  left  him? 

LEL.  In  Turkey,  at  Turin. 

TRUF.  Turin  !  but  I  thought  that  town  was  in  Pied- 
mont. 

MASC.  (Aside).  Oh  the  dunce  !  (To  Trufaldin).  You 
do  not  understand  him ;  he  means  Tunis ;  it  was  in  re- 
ality there  he  left  your  son ;  but  the  Armenians  always 
have  a  certain  vicious  pronunciation,  which  seems  very 
harsh  to  us ;  the  reason  of  it  is  because  in  all  their  words 
they  change  nis  into  rin;  and  so,  instead  of  saying  Tunis, 
they  pronounce  Turin. 

TRUF.  I  ought  to  know  this  in  order  to  understand  him. 
Did  he  tell  you  in  what  way  you  could  meet  with  his 
father  ? 

MASC.  (Aside}.      What   answer   will   he   give?25     (To 

46  Trufaldin  having  found  out  that  Mascarille  makes  signs  to  his  mas- 
ter, the  servant  pretends  to  fence. 


SCENE  in.]  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  53 

Trufaldin,  after  pretending  to  fence).  I  was  just  practising 
some  passes ;  I  have  handled  the  foils  in  many  a  fencing 
school. 

TRUF.  {To  Mascarille).  That  is  not  the  thing  I  wish  to 
know  now.  {To  Lelio).  What  other  name  did  he  say  I 
went  by  ? 

MASC.  Ah,  Signer  Zanobio  Ruberti.  How  glad  you 
ought  to  be  for  what  Heaven  sends  you  ! 

LEL.  That  is  your  real  name  ;  the  other  is  assumed. 

TRUF.  But  where  did  he  tell  you  he  first  saw  the  light? 

MASC.  Naples  seems  a  very  nice  place,  but  you  must 
feel  a  decided  aversion  to  it. 

TRUF.  Can  you  not  let  us  go  on  with  our  conversation, 
without  interrupting  us  ? 

LEL.  Naples  is  the  place  where  he  first  drew  his  breath. 

TRUF.  Whither  did  I  send  him  in  his  infancy,  and 
under  whose  care  ? 

MASC.  That  poor  Albert  behaved  very  well,  for  having 
accompanied  your  son  from  Bologna,  whom  you  com- 
mitted to  his  care. 

TRUF.  Pshaw ! 

MASC.  (Aside).  We  are  undone  if  this  conversation 
lasts  long. 

TRUF.  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  their  adven- 
tures ;  aboard  what  ship  did  my  adverse  fate  .  .  .  ? 

MASC.  I  do  not  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  I  do 
nothing  but  yawn.  But,  Signer  Trufaldin,  perhaps  this 
stranger  may  want  some  refreshment ;  besides,  it  grows 
late. 

LEL.  No  refreshment  for  me. 

MASC.  Oh  sir,  you  are  more  hungry  than  you  imagine. 

TRUF.  Please  to  walk  in  then. 

LEL.  After  you,  sir.26 

MASC.  (To  Trufaldin).  Sir,  in  Armenia,  the  masters 
of  the  house  use  no  ceremony.  (  To  Lelio,  after  Trufaldin 
has  gone  in).  Poor  fellow,  have  you  not  a  word  to  say  for 
yourself? 


28  It  shows  that  Lelio  knows  not  what  he  is  about  when  he  does  the 
honours  of  the  house  to  the  master  of  the  house  himself,  and  forgets  that 
as  a  stranger  he  ought  to  go  in  first. 


54  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT IV. 

LEL.  He  surprised  me  at  first ;  but  never  fear,  I  have 
rallied  my  spirits,  and  am  going  to  rattle  away  boldly  .  . 

MASC.  Here  comes  our  rival,  who  knows  nothing  of 
our  plot.  {They  go  into  Trufaldiri 's  house). 

SCENE  IV. — ANSELMO,  LEANDER. 

ANS.  Stay,  Leander,  and  allow  me  to  tell  you  something 
which  concerns  your  peace  and  reputation.  I  do  not 
speak  to  you  as  the  father  of  Hippolyta,  as  a  man  inter- 
ested for  my  own  family,  but  as  your  father,  anxious  for 
your  welfare,  without  wishing  to  flatter  you  or  to  disguise 
anything ;  in  short,  openly  and  honestly,  as  I  would  wish 
a  child  of  mine  to  be  treated  upon  the  like  occasion.  Do 
you  know  how  everybody  regards  this  amour  of  yours, 
which  in  one  night  has  burst  forth  ?  How  your  yester- 
day's undertaking  is  everywhere  talked  of  and  ridiculed  ? 
What  people  think  of  the  whim  which,  they  say,  has  made 
you  select  for  a  wife  a  gipsy  outcast,  a  strolling  wench, 
whose  noble  occupation  was  only  begging?  I  really 
blushed  for  you,  even  more  than  I  did  for  myself,  who  am 
also  compromised  by  this  public  scandal.  Yes,  I  am  com- 
promised, I  say,  I  whose  daughter,  being  engaged  to  you, 
cannot  bear  to  see  her  slighted,  without  taking  offence  at 
it.  For  shame,  Leander ;  arise  from  your  humiliation ; 
consider  well  your  infatuation ;  if  none  of  us  are  wise  at 
all  times,  yet  the  shortest  errors  are  always  the  best. 
When  a  man  receives  no  dowry  with  his  wife,  but  beauty 
only,  repentance  follows  soon  after  wedlock ;  and  the 
handsomest  woman  in  the  world  ;  can  hardly  defend  her- 
self against  a  lukewarmness  caused  by  possession.  I  re- 
peat it,  those  fervent  raptures,  those  youthful  ardours  and 
ecstacies,  may  make  us  pass  a  few  agreeable  nights,  but 
this  bliss  is  not  at  all  lasting,  and  as  our  passions  grow 
cool,  very  unpleasant  days  follow  those  pleasant  nights ; 
hence  proceed  cares,  anxieties,  miseries,  sons  disinherited 
through  their  fathers'  wrath. 

LEAND.  All  that  I  now  hear  from  you  is  no  more  than 
what  my  own  reason  has  already  suggested  to  me.  I  know 
how  much  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  great  honour  you 
are  inclined  to  pay  me,  and  of  which  I  am  unworthy.  In 
spite  of  the  passion  which  sways  me,  I  have  ever  retained 


SCENE  v.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  5  5 

a  just  sense  of  your  daughter's  merit  and  virtue:   therefore 
I  will  endeavour    .    .    . 

ANS.  Somebody  is  opening  this  door  ;  let  us  retire  to 
a  distance,  lest  some  contagion  spreads  from  it,  which  may 
attack  you  suddenly. 

SCENE  V. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  We  shall  soon  see  our  roguery  miscarry  if  you 
persist  in  such  palpable  blunders. 

LEL.  Must  I  always  hear  your  reprimands  ?  What 
can  you  complain  of?  Have  I  not  done  admirably 
since  .  .  .  ? 

MASC.  Only  middling ;  for  example,  you  called  the 
Turks  heretics,  and  you  affirmed,  on  your  corporal  oath, 
that  they  worshipped  the  sun  and  moon  as  their  gods.  Let 
that  pass.  What  vexes  me  most  is  that,  when  you  are  with 
Celia,  you  strangely  forget  yourself;  your  love  is  like  por- 
ridge, which  by  too  fierce  a  fire  swells,  mounts  up  to  the 
brim,  and  runs  over  everywhere. 

LEL.  Could  any  one  be  more  reserved  ?  As  yet  I  have 
hardly  spoken  to  her. 

MASC.  You  are  right !  but  it  is  not  enough  to  be  silent ; 
you  had  not  been  a  moment  at  table  till  your  gestures 
roused  more  suspicion  than  other  people  would  have  ex- 
cited in  a  whole  twelvemonth. 

LEL.  How  so  ? 

MASC.  How  so  ?  Everybody  might  have  seen  it.  At 
table,  where  Trufaldin  made  her  sit  down,  you  never  kept 
your  eyes  off  her,  blushed,  looked  quite  silly,  cast  sheep's 
eyes  at  her,  without  ever  minding  what  you  were  helped 
to ;  you  were  never  thirsty  but  when  she  drank,  and  took 
the  glass  eagerly  from  her  hands ;  and  without  rinsing  it, 
or  throwing  a  drop  of  it  away,  you  drank  what  she  left  in 
it,  and  seemed  to  choose  in  preference  that  side  of  the 
glass  which  her  lips  had  touched  ;  upon  every  piece  which 
her  slender  hand  had  touched,  or  which  she  had  bit,  you 
laid  your  paw  as  quickly  as  a  cat  does  upon  a  mouse,  and 
you  swallowed  it  as  glibly  as  if  you  were  a  regular  glutton. 
Then,  besides  all  this,  you  made  an  intolerable  noise, 
shuffling  with  your  feet  under  the  table,  for  which  Tru- 
faldin, who  received  two  lusty  kicks,  twice  punished  a 


$6  THE  BLUNDERER:  fAcnv. 

couple  of  innocent  dogs,  who  would  have  growled  at  you 
if  they  dared  ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  you  say  you 
behaved  finely  !  For  my  part  I  sat  upon  thorns  all  the 
time ;  notwithstanding  the  cold,  I  feel  even  now  in  a  per- 
spiration. I  hung  over  you  just  as  a  bowler  does  over  his 
bowl  after  he  has  thrown  it,  and  thought  to  restrain  your 
actions  by  contorting  my  body  ever  so  many  times. 

LEL.  Lack-a  day !  how  easy  it  is  for  you  to  condemn 
things  of  which  you  do  not  feel  the  enchanting  cause.  In 
order  to  humour  you  for  once  I  have,  nevertheless,  a  good 
mind  to  put  a  restraint  upon  that  love  which  sways  me. 
Henceforth  .  .  . 

SCENE  VI. — TRUFALDIN,  LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  We  were  speaking  about  your  son's  adventures. 

TRUF.  (To  Lelio).  You  did  quite  right.  Will  you  do 
me  the  favour  of  letting  me  have  one  word  in  private 
with  him  ? 

LEL.  I  should  be  very  rude  if  I  did  not.  (Lelio  goes 
into  Trufaldiri s  House}. 

SCENE  VII. — TRUFALDIN,  MASCARILLE. 

TRUF.  Hark  ye  !  do  you  know  what  I  have  just  been 
doing  ? 

MASC.  No,  but  if  you  think  it  proper,  I  shall  certainly 
not  remain  long  in  ignorance. 

TRUF.  I  have  just  now  cut  off  from  a  large  and  sturdy 
oak,  of  about  two  hundred  years  old,  an  admirable  branch, 
selected  on  purpose,  of  tolerable  thickness,  of  which  im- 
mediately, upon  the  spot,  I  made  a  cudgel,  about  .  .  . 
yes,  of  this  size  (showing  his  arm) ;  not  so  thick  at  one 
end  as  at  the  other,  but  fitter,  I  imagine,  than  thirty 
switches  to  belabour  the  shoulders  withal ;  for  it  is  well 
poised,  green,  knotty,  and  heavy. 

MASC.  But,  pray,  for  whom  is  all  this  preparation  ? 

TRUF.  For  yourself,  first  of  all ;  then,  secondly,  for  that 
fellow,  who  wishes  to  palm  one  person  upon  me,  and  trick 
me  out  of  another  ;  for  this  Armenian,  this  merchant  in 
disguise,  introduced  by  a  lying  and  pretended  story. 

MASC.  What !    you  do  not  believe  .    .    .  ? 

TRUF.  Do  not  try  to  find  an  excuse ;    he  himself,  fortu- 


SCENE  vin.]  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  57 

nately,  discovered  his  own  stratagem,  by  telling  Celia, 
whilst  he  squeezed  her  hand  at  the  same  time,  that  it  was 
for  her  sake  alone  he  came  disguised  in  this  manner.  He 
did  not  perceive  Jeannette,  my  little  god-daughter,  who 
overheard  every  word  he  said.  Though  your  name  was 
not  mentioned,  I  do  not  doubt  but  you  are  a  cursed 
accomplice  in  all  this. 

MASC.  Indeed,  you  wrong  me.  If  you  are  really  de- 
ceived, believe  me  I  was  the  first  imposed  upon  with  his 
story. 

TRUF.  Would  you  convince  me  you  speak  the  truth  ? 
Assist  me  in  giving  him  a  sound  drubbing,  and  in  driving 
him  away ;  let  us  give  it  the  rascal  well,  and  then  I  will 
acquit  you  of  all  participation  in  this  piece  of  rascality. 

MASC.  Ay,  ay,  with  all  my  soul.  I  will  dust  his  jacket 
for  him  so  soundly,  that  you  shall  see  I  had  no  hand  in 
this  matter.  (Aside}.  Ah  !  you  shall  have  a  good  lick- 
ing, Mister  Armenian,  who  always  spoil  everything. 

SCENE  VIII. — LELIO,  TRUFALDIN,  MASCARILLE. 

TRUF.  (Knocks  at  his  door,  and  then  addresses  Lelio}.  A 
word  with  you,  if  you  please.  So,  Mr.  Cheat,  you  have 
the  assurance  to  fool  a  respectable  man,  and  make  game  of 
him  ? 

MASC.  To  pretend  to  have  seen  his  son  abroad,  in  order 
to  get  the  more  easily  into  his  house  ! 

TRUF.  (Beating  JLelio).  Go  away,  go  away  immedi- 
ately. 

LEL.  (  To  Mascarille,  who  beats  him  likewise).  Oh  !  you 
scoundrel ! 

MASC    It  is  thus  that  rogues  .    .    . 

LEL.  Villain  ! 

MASC.   Are  served  here.     Keep  that  for  my  sake  ! 

LEL.  What  ?    Is  a  gentleman  .    .    .  ? 

MASC.  (Beating  him  and  driving  him  off}.  March  off, 
begone,  I  tell  you,  or  I  shall  break  all  the  bones  in  your 
body. 

TRUT.  I  am  delighted  with  this ;  come  in,  I  am  satis- 
fied. {Mascarille  follows  Trufaldin  into  his  house}. 

LEL.  (Returning)      This  to  me  !     To  be  thus  affronted 


58  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  ,v. 

by  a  servant  !  Could  I  have  thought  the  wretch  would 
have  dared  thus  to  ill-treat  his  master  ? 

MASC.  (from  Trufaldin's  window}.  May  I  take  the 
liberty  to  ask  how  your  shoulders  are  ? 

LEL.  What !  Have  you  the  impudence  still  to  address  me? 

MASC.  Now  see  what  it  is  not  to  have  perceived  Jean- 
nette,  and  to  have  always  a  blabbing  tongue  in  your  head  ! 
However,  this  time  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  I  have  done 
cursing  and  swearing  at  you  j  though  you  behaved  very 
imprudently,  yet  my  hand  has  made  your  shoulders  pay 
for  your  fault. 

LEL.  Ha !  I  shall  be  revenged  on  you  for  your  treach- 
erous behaviour. 

MASC.  You  yourself  were  the  cause  of  all  this  mischief. 

LEL.  I? 

MASC.  If  you  had  had  a  grain  of  sense  when  you  were 
talking  to  your  idol  you  would  have  perceived  Jeannette 
at  your  heels,  whose  sharp  ears  overheard  the  whole  affair. 

LEL.  Could  anybody  possibly  catch  one  word  I  spoke 
to  Celia  ? 

MASC.  And  what  else  was  the  cause  why  you  were  sud- 
denly turned  out  of  doors  ?  Yes,  you  are  shut  out  by  your 
own  tittle-tattle.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  play  often 
at  piquet,  but  you  at  least  throw  your  cards  away  in  an 
admirable  manner. 

LEL.  Oh  !  I  am  the  most  unhappy  of  all  men.  But 
why  did  you  drive  me  away  also  ? 

MASC.  I  never  did  better  than  in  acting  thus.  By  these 
means,  at  least,  I  prevent  all  suspicion  of  my  being  the  in- 
ventor or  an  accomplice  of  this  stratagem. 

LEL.  But  you  should  have  laid  it  on  more  gently. 

MASC.  I  was  no  such  fool !  Trufaldin  watched  me  most 
narrowly  ;  besides,  I  must  tell  you,  under  the  pretence  of 
being  of  use  to  you,  I  was  not  at  all  displeased  to  vent  my 
spleen.  However,  the  thing  is  done,  and  if  you  will  give 
me  your  word  of  honour,  never,  directly  or  indirectly,  to 
be  revenged  on  me  for  the  blows  on  the  back  I  so  heartily 
gave  you,  I  promise  you,  by  the  help  of  my  present  sta- 
tion, to  satisfy  your  wishes  within  these  two  nights. 

LEL.  Though  you  have  treated  me  very  harshly,  yet 
what  would  not  such  a  promise  prevail  upon  me  to  do  ? 


SCBNB  ix.]  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  59 

MASC.  You  promise,  then? 

LEL.  Yes,  I  do. 

MASC.  But  that  is  not  all ;  promise  never  to  meddle  in 
anything  I  take  in  hand. 

LEL.  I  do. 

MASC.  If  you  break  your  word  may  you  get  the  cold 
shivers  ! 

LEL.  Then  keep  it  with  me,  and  do  not  forget  my  un- 
easiness. 

MASC.  Go  and  change  your  dress,  and  rub  something 
on  your  back. 

LEL.  (Alone).  Will  ill-luck  always  follow  me,  and  heap 
upon  me  one  misfortune  after  another  ? 

MASC.  (Coming  out  of  Trufaldirt  s  house).  What!  Not 
gone  yet  ?  Hence  immediately ;  but,  above  all,  be  sure 
you  don't  trouble  your  head  about  any  thing.  Be  satis- 
fied, that  I  am  on  your  side  ;  do  not  make  the  least  at- 
tempt to  assist  me  ;  remain  quiet. 

LEL.   ( Going).  '  Yes,  to  be  sure,  I  will  remain  quiet. 

MASC.  (Alone).  Now  let  me  see  what  course  I  am  to 
steer. 

SCENE  IX. — ERGASTE,  MASCARILLE. 

ERG.  Mascarille,  I  come  to  tell  you  a  piece  of  news, 
which  will  give  a  cruel  blow  to  your  projects.  At  the 
very  moment  I  am  talking  to  you,  a  young  gipsy,  who 
nevertheless  is  no  black,  and  looks  like  a  gentleman,  has 
arrived  with  a  very  wan -looking  old  woman,  and  is  to  call 
•upon  Trufaldin  to  purchase  the  slave  you  wished  to  re- 
deem. He  seems  to  be  very  anxious  to  get  possession  of 
her. 

MASC.  Doubtless  it  is  the  lover  Celia  spoke  about. 
Were  ever  fortunes  so  tangled  as  ours  ?  No  sooner  have 
we  got  rid  of  one  trouble  than  we  fall  into  another.  In  vain 
do  we  hear  that  Leander  intends  to  abandon  his  pursuit, 
and  to  give  us  no  further  trouble;  that  the  unexpected 
arrival  of  his  father  has  turned  the  scales  in  favour  of 
Hippolyta;  that  the  old  gentleman  has  employed  his 
parental  authority  to  make  a  thorough  change,  and 
that  the  marriage  contract  is  going  to  be  signed  this 
very  day ;  as  soon  as  one  rival  withdraws,  another  and  a 


60  THE  BLUNDERER:  [AC-TV. 

more  dangerous  one  starts  up  to  destroy  what  little  hope 
there  was  left.  However,  by  a  wonderful  stratagem,  I 
believe  I  shall  be  able  to  delay  their  departure  and  gain 
what  time  I  want  to  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  this  famous 
affair.  A  great  robbery  has  lately  been  committed,  by 
whom,  nobody  knows.  These  gipsies  have  not  generally 
the  reputation  of  being  very  honest ;  upon  this  slight  sus- 
picion, I  will  cleverly  get  the  fellow  imprisoned  for  a  few 
days.  I  know  some  officers  of  justice,  open  to  a  bribe, 
who  will  not  hesitate  on  such  an  occasion ;  greedy  and  ex- 
pecting some  present,  there  is  nothing  they  will  not 
attempt  with  their  eyes  shut;  be  the  accused  ever  so 
innocent,  the  purse  is  always  criminal,  and  must  pay  for 
the  offence. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE   I. — MASCARILLE,  ERGASTE. 

MASC.  Ah  blockhead  !  numskull  !  idiot !  Will  you 
never  leave  off  persecuting  me  ? 

ERG.  The  constable  took  great  care  everything  was 
going  on  smoothly ;  the  fellow  would  have  been  in  jail, 
had  not  your  master  come  up  that  very  moment,  and,  like 
a  madman  spoiled  your  plot.  "I  cannot  suffer,"  says  he 
in  a  loud  voice,  "that  a  respectable  man  should  be  dragged 
to  prison  in  this  disgraceful  manner ;  I  will  be  responsible 
for  him,  from  his  very  looks,  and  will  be  his  bail."  And 
as  they  refused  to  let  him  go,  he  immediately  and  so  vigo- 
rously attacked  the  officers,  who  are  a  kind  of  people  much 
afraid  of  their  carcasses,  that,  even  at  this  very  moment, 
they  are  running,  and  every  man  thinks  he  has  got  a  Lelio 
at  his  heels. 

MASC.  The  fool  does  not  know  that  this  gipsy  is  in  the 
house  already  to  carry  off  his  treasure. 

ERG.  Good-bye,  business  obliges  me  to  leave  you. 

SCENE  II. — MASCARILLE,  alone. 

Yes,  this  last  marvellous  accident  quite  stuns  me.  One 
would  think,  and  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  that  this  bungling 
devil  which  possesses  Lelio  takes  delight  in  defying  me, 
and  leads  him  into  every  place  where  his  presence  can  do 


SCUNE  m.J  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  6l 

mischief.  Yet  I  shall  go  on,  and  notwithstanding  all  these 
buffets  of  fortune,  try  who  will  carry  the  day.  Celia  has 
no  aversion  to  him,  and  looks  upon  her  departure  with 
great  regret.  I  must  endeavour  to  improve  this  opportu- 
nity. But  here  they  come;  let  me  consider  how  I  shall 
execute  my  plan.  Yonder  furnished  house  is  at  my  dis- 
posal, and  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  it;  if  fortune  but 
favours  us,  all  will  go  well ;  nobody  lives  there  but  my- 
self, and  I  keep  the  key.  Good  Heavens  !  what  a  great 
many  adventures  have  befallen  us  in  so  short  a  time,  and 
what  numerous  disguises  a  rogue  is  obliged  to  put  on. 

SCENE  III. — CELIA,  ANDRES. 

AND.  You  know  it,  Celia,  I  have  left  nothing  undone 
to  prove  the  depth  of  my  passion.  When  I  was  but  very 
young,  my  courage  in  the  wars  gained  me  some  considera- 
tion among  the  Venetians,  and  one  time  or  other,  and 
without  having  too  great  an  opinion  of  myself,  I  might, 
had  I  continued  in  their  service,  have  risen  to  some  em- 
ployment of  distinction  ;  but,  for  your  sake,  I  abandoned 
everything;  the  sudden  change  you  produced  in  my  heart, 
was  quickly  followed  by  your  lover  joining  the  gipsies. 
Neither  a  great  many  adventures  nor  your  indifference 
have  been  able  to  make  me  abandon  my  pursuit.  Since 
that  time,  being  by  an  accident  separated  from  you  much 
longer  than  I  could  have  foreseen,  I  spared  neither  time 
nor  pains  to  meet  with  you  again.  At  last  I  discovered 
the  old  gipsy-woman,  and  heard  from  her  that  for  a  cer- 
tain sum  of  money,  which  was  then  of  great  consequence 
to  the  gipsies,  and  prevented  the  dissolution  of  the  whole 
band,  you  were  left  in  pledge  in  this  neighbourhood. 
Full  of  impatience,  I  flew  hither  immediately  to  break 
these  mercenary  chains,  and  to  receive  from  you  whatever 
commands  you  might  be  pleased  to  give.  But,  when  I 
thought  to  see  joy  sparkle  in  your  eyes,  I  find  you  pensive 
and  melancholy ;  if  quietness  has  charms  for  you,  I  have 
sufficient  means  at  Venice,  of  the  spoils  taken  in  war,  for 
us  both  to  live  there ;  but  if  I  must  still  follow  you  as 
before,  I  will  do  so,  and  my  heart  shall  have  no  other  am- 
bition than  to  serve  you  in  whatever  manner  you  please. 

CEL.  You  openly  display  your    affection    for   me.     I 


62  THE    BLUNDERER  : 


[ACT  v. 


should  be  ungrateful  not  to  be  sensible  of  it.  Besides,  just 
now,  my  countenance  does  not  bear  the  impress  of  the 
feelings  of  my  heart;  my  looks  show  that  I  have  a  violent 
headache.  If  I  have  the  least  influence  over  you,  you 
will  delay  our  voyage  for  at  least  three  or  four  days,  until 
my  indisposition  has  passed  away. 

AND.  I  shall  stay  as  long  as  you  like ;  I  only  wish  to 
please  you ;  let  us  look  for  a  house  where  you  may  be 
comfortable.  Ho !  here  is  a  bill  up  just  at  the  right  time. 

SCENE    IV. — CELIA,  ANDRES,  MASCARILLE,  disguised   as 
a  Swiss. 

AND.  Monsieur  Swiss,  are  you  the  master  of  the  house  ? 

MASC.  I  am  at  your  service."27 

AND.  Can  we  lodge  here  ? 

MASC.  Yes,  I  let  furnished  lodgings  to  strangersj  but 
only  to  respectable  people. 

AND.  I  suppose  your  house  has  a  very  good  reputation  ? 

MASC.  I  see  by  your  face  you  are  a  stranger  in  this 
town. 

AND.  I  am. 

MASC.  Are  you  the  husband  of  this  lady  ? 

AND.  Sir? 

MASC.  Is  she  your  wife  or  your  sister  ? 

AND.  Neither. 

MASC.  Upon  my  word,  she  is  very  pretty  !  Do  you 
come  on  business,  or  have  you  a  la  wsuit  going  on  before 
the  court  ?  A  lawsuit  is  a  very  bad  thing,  it  costs  so 
much  money;  a  solicitor  is  a  thief,  and  a  barrister  a  rogue. 

AND.  I  do  not  come  for  either  of  these. 

MASC.  You  have  brought  this  young  lady  then  to  walk 
about  and  to  see  the  town  ? 

AND.     What  is  that  to  you ?     (To  Celia).      I   shall  be 

2TIn  the  original,  Mascarille  speaks  a  kind  of  gibberish,  which  is 
only  amusing  when  the  play  is  acted;  but  it  can  serve  no  purpose  to 
translate  "  mot,  pour  serfir  a  fous,"  "  Oui,  moi  pour  d'estrancher  chap- 
pon  champre  garni,  mais  che  non  point  locker  te  gent  te  mechant  vi,'' 
etc.,  by  "me  be  at  your  serfice,'1  "yes,  me  have  de  very  goot  sham- 
bers,  ready  furnish  for  stranger,  but  me  no  loge  de  people  scandaluse,'' 
etc.  A  provincial  pronunciation,  an  Irish  brogue,  or  a  Scotch  tongue, 
are  no  equivalent  for  this  mock  Swiss  German-French 


SCBNB  vi.]  OR,  THE  COUNTERPLOTS.  63 

with  you  again  in  one  moment ;  I  am  going  to  fetch  the 
old  woman  presently,  and  tell  them  not  to  send  the  tra- 
velling-carriage which  was  ready. 

MASC.   Is  the  lady  not  quite  well  ? 

AND.   She  has  a  headache. 

MASC.  I  have  some  good  wine  and  cheese  within  ;  walk 
in,  go  into  my  small  house.  (Cetia,  Andres  and  Masca- 
rille  go  into  the  house}. 

SCENE  V. — LELIO,  alone. 

However  impatient  and  excited  I  may  feel,  yet  I  have 
pledged  my  word  to  do  nothing  but  wait  quietly,  to  let 
another  work  for  me,  and  to  see,  without  daring  to  stir, 
in  what  manner  Heaven  will  change  my  destiny. 

SCENE  VI. — ANDRES,  LELIO. 

LEL.  (Addressing  Andres,  who  is  coming  out  of  the  house). 
Do  you  want  to  see  anybody  in  this  house  ? 

AND.  I  have  just  taken  some  furnished  apartments 
there. 

LEL.  The  house  belongs  to  my  father,  and  my  servant 
sleeps  there  every  night  to  take  care  of  it. 

AND.  I  know  nothing  of  that ;  the  bill,  at  least,  shows 
it  is  to  be  let ;  read  it. 

LEL.  Truly  this  surprises  me,  I  confess.  Who  the 
deuce  can  have  put  that  bill  up,  and  why  .  .  .  ?  Ho, 
faith,  I  can  guess,  pretty  near,  what  it  means ;  this  can- 
not possibly  proceed  but  from  the  quarter  I  surmise. 

AND.  May  I  ask  what  affair  this  may  be  ? 

LEL.  I  would  keep  it  carefully  from  anybody  else,  but 
it  can  be  of  no  consequence  to  you,  and  you  will  not  men- 
tion it  to  any  one.  Without  doubt,  that  bill  can  be 
nothing  else  but  an  invention  of  the  servant  I  spoke  of ; 
nothing  but  some  cunning  plot  he  has  hatched  to  place 
into  my  hands  a  certain  gipsy  girl,  with  whom  I  am 
smitten,  and  of  whom  I  wish  to  obtain  possession.  I  have 
already  attempted  this  several  times,  but  until  now  in  vain. 

AND.   What  is  her  name  ? 

LEL.   Celia. 

AND.  What  do  you  say  ?    Had  you  but  mentioned  this, 


64  THE    BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  v. 

no  doubt  I  should  have  saved  you  all  the  trouble  this  pro- 
ject costs  you. 

LEL.   How  so  ?     Do  you  know  her  ? 

AND.   It  is  I  who  just  now  bought  her  from  her  master. 

LEL.  You  surprise  me  ! 

AND.  As  the  state  of  her  health  did  not  allow  her  to 
leave  this  town,  I  just  took  these  apartments  for  her;  and 
I  am  very  glad  that  on  this  occasion  you  have  acquainted 
me  with  your  intentions. 

LEL.  What !  shall  I  obtain  the  happiness  I  hope  for  by 
your  means  ?  Could  you  .  .  .  ? 

AND.  {Knocks  at  the  door).  You  shall  be  satisfied  im- 
mediately. 

LEL.  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?   And  what  thanks  .    .    .  ? 

AND.  No,  give  me  none  ;  I  will  have  none. 

SCENE  VII. — LELIO,  ANDRES,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  (Aside).  Hallo  !  Is  this  not  my  mad-cap  mas- 
ter ?  He  will  make  another  blunder. 

LEL.  Who  would  have  known  him  in  this  grotesque 
dress  ?  Come  hither,  Mascarille,  you  are  welcome. 

MASC.  I  am  a  man  of  honour  ;  I  am  not  Mascarille,*8 
I  never  debauched  any  married  or  unmarried  woman. 

LEL.  What  funny  gibberish  !  It  is  really  very  good  ! 

MASC.  Go  about  your  business,  and  do  not  laugh  at  me. 

LEL.  You  can  take  off  your  dress ;  recognise  your 
master. 

MASC.  Upon  my  word  !  by  all  the  saints,  I  never  knew 
you ! 

LEL.   Everything  is  settled,  disguise  yourself  no  longer. 

MASC.  If  you  do  not  go  away  I  will  give  you  a  slap  in 
the  face. 

LEL.  Your  Swiss  jargon  is  needless,  I  tell  you,  for  we 
are  agreed,  and  his  generosity  lays  me  under  an  obliga- 
tion. I  have  all  I  can  wish  for;  you  have  no  reason  to  be 
under  any  farther  apprehension. 

MASC.  If  you  are  agreed,  by  great  good  luck,  I  will  no 
longer  play  the  Swiss,  and  become  myself  again. 

28  Mascarille  answers  in  his  gibberish,  "  Mot  non  point  Masquerille"  an 
allusion  to  maquerelle  a  female  pander  ;  hence  his  further  remarks. 


SCENE  x.J  OR,   THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  65 

AND.  This  valet  of  yours  serves  you  with  much  zeal ; 
stay  a  little ;  I  will  return  presently. 

SCENE  VIII. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

LEL.  Well,  what  do  you  say  now? 

MASC.  That  I  am  delighted  to  see  our  labours  crowned 
with  success. 

LEL.  You  were  hesitating  to  doff  your  disguise,  and 
could  hardly  believe  me. 

MASC.  As  I  know  you  I  was  rather  afraid',  and  still  find 
the  adventure  very  astonishing. 

LEL.  But  confess,  however,  that  I  have  done  great 
things — at  least  I  have  now  made  amends  for  all  my  blun- 
ders— mine  will  be  the  honour  of  having  finished  the 
work. 

MASC.  Be  it  so  ;  you  have  been  much  more  lucky  than 
wise. 

SCENE  IX. — CELIA,  ANDRES,  LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

AND.  Is  not  this  the  lady  you  were  speaking  of  to  me  ? 

LEL.  Heavens  !  what  happiness  can  be  equal  to  mine ! 

AND.  It  is  true ;  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  the  kind- 
ness you  have  shown  me  ;  I  should  be  much  to  blame  if  I 
did  not  acknowledge  it ;  but  this  kindness  would  be  too 
dearly  bought  were  I  to  repay  it  at  the  expense  of  my 
heart.  Judge,  by  the  rapture  her  beauty  causes  me, 
whether  I  ought  to  discharge  my  debt  to  you  at  such  a 
price.  You  are  generous,  and  would  not  have  me  act 
thus.  Farewell.  Let  us  return  whence  we  came,  and  stay 
there  for  a  few  days.  (He  leads  Celia  away). 

SCENE  X. — LELIO,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  I  am  laughing,  and  yet  I  have  little  inclination 
to  it.  You  two  are  quite  of  the  same  mind ;  he  gives 
Celia  to  you.  Hem  !  .  .  .  You  understand  me,  sir? 

LEL.  This  is  too  much.  I  am  determined  no  longer  to 
ask  you  to  assist  me;  it  is  useless;  I  am  a  puppy,  a 
wretch,  a  detestable  blockhead,  not  worthy  of  any  one 
taking  any  trouble  for  me,  incapable  of  doing  anything. 
Abandon  all  endeavours  to  aid  an  unfortunate  wretch,  who 
will  not  allow  himself  to  be  made  happy  ;  after  so  many 
VOL.  i.  E 


66  THE   BLUNDERER :  [ACT  v. 

misfortunes,  after  all  my  imprudent  actions,  death   alone 
should  aid  me. 

SCENE  XL — MASCARILLE,  alone. 

That  is  the  true  way  of  putting  the  finishing  stroke  to 
his  fate  ;  he  wants  nothing  now  but  to  die,  to  crown  all 
his  follies.  But  in  vain  his  indignation,  for  all  the  faults 
he  has  committed  urges  him  to  renounce  my  aid  and  my 
support.  I  intend,  happen  what  will,  to  serve  him  in  spite 
of  himself,  and  vanquish  the  very  devil  that  possesses  him. 
The  greater  the  obstacle,  the  greater  the  glory ;  and  the 
difficulties  which  beset  us  are  but  a  kind  of  tire-women  who 
deck  and  adorn  virtue. 

SCENE  XII. — CELIA,  MASCARILLE. 

CELT  A.  (7<?  Mascarille,  who  has  been  whispering  to 
her).  Whatever  you  may  say,  and  whatever  they  intend 
doing,  I  have  no  great  expectation  from  this  delay.  What 
we  have  seen  hitherto  may  indeed  convince  us  that  they 
are  not  as  yet  likely  to  agree.  I  have  already  told  you 
that  a  heart  like  mine  will  not  for  the  sake  of  one  do  an 
injustice  to  another,  and  that  I  find  myself  strongly  at- 
tached to  both,  though  by  different  ties.  If  Lelio  has 
love  and  its  power  on  his  side,  Andres  has  gratitude  plead- 
ing for  him,  which  will  not  permit  even  my  most  secret 
thoughts  ever  to  harbour  anything  against  his  interests. 
Yes ;  if  he  has  no  longer  a  place  in  my  heart,  if  the  gift 
of  my  hand  must  not  crown  his  love,  I  ought  at  least  to 
reward  that  which  he  has  done  for  me,  by  not  choosing 
another,  in  contempt  of  his  flame,  and  suppress  my  own 
inclinations  in  the  same  manner  as  I  do  his.  You  have 
heard  the  difficulties  which  duty  throws  in  my  way,  and 
you  can  judge  now  whether  your  expectations  will  be  re- 
alized. 

MASC.  To  speak  the  truth,  they  are  very  formidable 
obstacles  in  our  way,  and  I  have  not  the  knack  of  working 
miracles ;  but  I  will  do  my  utmost,  move  Heaven  and 
earth,  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  try  and  discover  some 
happy  expedient.  I  shall  soon  let  you  know  what  can  be 
done. 


SCBNB  xiv.]  OR,   THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  6/ 

SCENE  XIII. — HIPPOLYTA,  CELIA. 

HIPP.  Ever  since  you  came  among  us,  the  ladies  of  this 
neighbourhood  may  well  complain  of  the  havoc  caused  by 
your  eyes,  since  you  deprive  them  of  the  greatest  part  of 
their  conquests,  and  make  all  their  lovers  faithless.  There 
is  not  a  heart  which  can  escape  the  darts  with  which  you 
pierce  them  as  soon  as  they  see  you ;  many  thousands  load 
themselves  with  your  chains,  and  seem  to  enrich  you  daily 
at  our  expense.  However,  as  regards  myself,  I  should 
make  no  complaints  of  the  irresistible  sway  of  your  exqui- 
site charms,  had  they  left  me  one  of  all  my  lovers  to  con- 
sole me  for  the  loss  of  the  others ;  but  it  is  inhuman  in  you 
that  without  mercy  you  deprive  me  of  all ;  I  cannot  for- 
bear complaining  to  you. 

CEL.  You  rally  in  a  charming  manner,  but  I  beseech 
you  to  spare  me  a  little.  Those  eyes,  those  very  eyes  of  yours, 
know  their  own  power  too  well  ever  to  dread  anything 
that  I  am  able  to  do  ;  they  are  too  conscious  of  their  own 
charms,  and  will  never  entertain  similar  feelings  of  fear. 

HIPP.  Yet  I  advance  nothing  in  what  I  have  said  which 
has  not  already  entered  the  mind  of  every  one,  and  with- 
out mentioning  anything  else,  it  is  well  known  that  Celia 
has  made  a  deep  impression  on  Leander  and  on  Lelio. 

CEL.  I  believe  you  will  easily  console  yourself  about 
their  loss,  since  they  have  become  so  infatuated ;  nor  can 
you  regret  a  lover  who  could  make  so  ill  a  choice. 

HIPP.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  of  quite  a  different  opi- 
nion, and  discover  such  great  merits  in  your  beauty,  and 
see  in  it  so  many  reasons  sufficient  to  excuse  the  incon- 
stancy of  those  who  allow  themselves  to  be  attracted  by  it, 
that  I  cannot  blame  Leander  for  having  changed  his  love 
and  broken  his  plighted  troth.  In  a  short  time,  and  with- 
out either  hatred  or  anger,  I  shall  see  him  again  brought 
under  my  sway,  when  his  father  shall  have  exercised  his 
authority. 

SCENE  XIV. — CELIA,  HIPPOLYTA,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Great   news  !    great   news !    a   wonderful   event 
which  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you ! 
CEL.  What  means  this? 
MASC.  Listen.     This  is,  without  any  compliments.  4    . 


68  THE   BLUNDERER  :  [ACT  v. 

CEL.  What? 

MASC.  The  last  scene  of  a  true  and  genuine  comedy. 
The  old  gipsy-woman  was,  but  this  very  moment  .  .  . 

CEL.  Well? 

MASC.  Crossing  the  market-place,  thinking  about 
nothing  at  all,  when  another  old  woman,  very  haggard- 
looking,  after  having  closely  stared  at  her  for  some  time, 
hoarsely  broke  out  in  a  torrent  of  abusive  language,  and 
thus  gave  the  signal  for  a  furious  combat,  in  which,  in- 
stead of  swords,  muskets,  daggers,  or  arrows,  nothing  was 
seen  but  four  withered  paws,  brandished  in  the  air,  with 
which  these  two  combatants  endeavoured  to  tear  off  the 
little  flesh  old  age  had  left  on  their  bones.  Not  a  word 
was  heard  but  drab,  wretch,  trull.  Their  caps,  to  begin 
with,  were  flying  about,  and  left  a  couple  of  bald  pates 
exposed  to  view,  which  rendered  the  battle  ridiculously 
horrible.  At  the  noise  and  hubbub,  Andres  and  Trufal- 
din,  as  well  as  many  others,  ran  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, and  had  much  ado  to  part  them,  so  excited  were  they 
by  passion.  Meanwhile  each  of  them,  when  the  storm 
was  abated,  endeavoured  to  hide  her  head  with  shame. 
Everybody  wished  to  know  the  cause  of  this  ridiculous 
fray.  She  who  first  began  it  having,  notwithstanding  the 
warmth  of  her  passion,  looked  for  some  time  at  Trufaldin, 
said  in  a  loud  voice, — "  It  is  you,  unless  my  sight  mis- 
gives me,  who,  I  was  informed,  lived  privately  in  this 
town  ;  most  happy  meeting !  Yes,  Signer  Zanobio 
Ruberti,  fortune  made  me  find  you  out  at  the  very  mo- 
ment I  was  giving  myself  so  much  trouble  for  your  sake. 
When  you  left  your  family  at  Naples,  your  daughter,  as 
you  know,  remained  under  my  care.  I  brought  her  up 
from  her  youth.  When  she  was  only  four  years  old  she 
showed  already  in  a  thousand  different  ways  what  charms 
and  beauty  she  would  have.  That  woman  you  see  there — 
that  infamous  hag — who  had  become  rather  intimate  with 
us,  robbed  me  of  that  treasure.  Your  good  lady,  alas  ! 
felt  so  much  grief  at  this  misfortune,  that,  as  I  have  reason 
to  believe  it  shortened  her  days;  so  that,  fearing  your 
severe  reproaches  because  your  daughter  had  been  stolen 
from  me,  I  sent  you  word  that  both  were  dead ;  but  now, 
as  I  have  found, out  the  thief,  she  must  tell  us  what  has  be- 


SCENB    XIV.  I 


OR,    THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  69 


come  of  your  child."  At  the  name  of  Zanobio  Ruberti, 
which  she  repeated  several  times  throughout  the  story, 
Andres,  after  changing  colour  often,  addressed  to  the  sur- 
prised Trufaldin  these  words:  "  What !  has  Heaven  most 
happily  brought  me  to  him  whom  I  have  hitherto  sought 
in  vain !  Can  I  possibly  have  beheld  my  father,  the 
author  of  my  being,  without  knowing  him  ?  Yes,  father, 
I  am  Horatio,  your  son  ;  my  tutor,  Albert,  having  died,  I 
felt  anew  certain  uneasiness  in  my  mind,  left  Bologna,  and 
abandoning  my  studies,  wandered  about  for  six  years  in 
different  places,  according  as  my  curiosity  led  me.  How- 
ever, after  the  expiration  of  that  time,  a  secret  impulse 
drove  me  to  revisit  my  kindred  and  my  native  country ; 
but  in  Naples,  alas  !  I  could  no  longer  find  you,  and  could 
only  hear  vague  reports  concerning  you ;  so  that  having 
in  vain  tried  to  meet  with  you,  I  ceased  to  roam  about 
idly,  and  stopped  for  a  while  in  Venice.  From  that  time 
to  this  I  have  lived  without  receiving  any  other  informa- 
tion about  my  family,  except  knowing  its  name."  You 
may  judge  whether  Trufaldin  was  not  more  than  ordinarily 
moved  all  this  while ;  in  one  word  (to  tell  you  shortly  that 
which  you  will  have  an  opportunity  of  learning  afterwards 
more  at  your  leisure,  from  the  confession  of  the  old  gipsy- 
woman),  Trufaldin  owns  you  (to  Celia)  now  for  his 
daughter ;  Andres  is  your  brother ;  and  as  he  can  no 
longer  think  of  marrying  his  sister,  and  as  he  acknow- 
ledges he  is  under  some  obligation  to  my  master,  Lelio,  he 
has  obtained  for  him  your  hand.  Pandolphus  being 
present  at  this  discovery,  gives  his  full  consent  to  the 
marriage;  and  to  complete  the  happiness  of  the  family, 
proposes  that  the  newly-found  Horatio  should  marry  his 
daughter.  See  how  many  incidents  are  produced  at  one 
and  the  same  time  ! 

CEL.  Such  tidings  perfectly  amaze  me. 

MASC.  The  whole  company  follow  me,  except  the  two 
female  champions,  who  are  adjusting  their  toilet  after  the 
fray.  Leander  and  your  father  are  also  coming.  I  shall  go 
and  inform  my  master  of  this,  and  let  him  know  that 
when  we  thought  obstacles  were  increasing,  Heaven  almost 
wrought  a  miracle  in  his  favour.  (£xit  Mascarille). 

HIPP.  This  fortunate  event  fills  me  with  as  much  as  joy 
as  if  it  were  my  own  case.  But  here  they  come. 


70  THE  BLUNDERER:  [ACTV. 

SCENE  XV. — TRUFALDIN,  ANSELMO,  ANDRES,  CELIA, 
HIPPOLYTA,  LEANDER. 

TRUF.  My  child  ! 

GEL.  Father  ! 

TRUF.  Do  you  already  know  how  Heaven  has  blest  us  ? 

CEL.  I  have  just  now  heard  this  wonderful  event. 

HIPP.  (To  Leander).  You  need  not  find  excuses  for 
your  past  infidelity.  The  cause  of  it,  which  I  have  before 
my  eyes,  is  a  sufficient  excuse. 

LEAND.  I  crave  nothing  but  a  generous  pardon.  I  call 
Heaven  to  witness  that,  though  I  return  to  my  duty  sud- 
denly, my  father's  authority  has  influenced  me  less  than 
my  own  inclination. 

AND.  (To  Celid).  Who  could  ever  have  supposed  that 
so  chaste  a  love  would  one  day  be  condemned  by  nature  ? 
However,  honour  swayed  it  always  so  much,  that  with  a 
little  alteration  it  may  still  continue. 

CEL.  As  for  me,  I  blamed  myself,  and  thought  I  was 
wrong,  because  I  felt  nothing  but  a  very  sincere  esteem  for 
you.  I  could  not  tell  what  powerful  obstacle  stopped  me 
in  a  path  so  agreeable  and  so  dangerous,  and  diverted  my 
heart  from  acknowledging  a  love  which  my  senses  endea- 
voured to  communicate  to  my  soul. 

TRUF.  (To  Celia).  But  what  would  you  say  of  me  if, 
as  soon  as  I  have  found  you,  I  should  be  thinking  of 
parting  with  you  ?  I  promised  your  hand  to  this  gentle- 
man's son. 

CEL.  I  know  no  will  but  yours 

SCENE  XVI. — TRUFALDIN,  ANSELMO,  PANDOLPHUS,  CELIA, 

HIPPOLYTA,  LELIO,  LEANDER,  ANDRES,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Now,  let  us  see  whether  this  devil  of  yours  will 
have  the  power  to  destroy  so  solid  a  foundation  as  this  ; 
and  whether  your  inventive  powers  will  again  strive  against 
this  great  good  luck  that  befalls  you.  Through  a  most 
unexpected  favourable  turn  of  fortune  your  desires  are 
crowned  with  success,  and  Celia  is  yours. 

LEL.  Am  I  to  believe  that  the  omnipotence  of 
Heaven  .  .  .  ? 

TRUF.  Yes,  son-in-law,  it  is  really  so. 

PAND.  The  matter  is  settled. 


SCENE  xvi.]  OR,  THE   COUNTERPLOTS.  71 

AND.  ( To  Lelio).  By  this  I  repay  the  obligation  you 
lay  me  under. 

LEL.  {To  Mascarille).  I  must  embrace  you  ever  so 
many  times  in  this  great  joy  .  .  . 

MASC.  Oh !  oh  !  gently,  I  beseech  you ;  he  has  almost 
choked  me.  I  am  very  much  afraid  for  Celia  if  you  em- 
brace her  so  forcibly.  One  can  do  very  well  without  such 
proofs  of  affection. 

TRUF.  (To  Lelio).  You  know  the  happiness  with  which 
Heaven  has  blessed  me  ;  but  since  the  same  day  has  caused 
us  all  to  rejoice,  let  us  not  part  until  it  is  ended,  and  let 
Leander's  father  also  be  sent  for  quickly. 

MASC.  You  are  all  provided  for.  Is  there  not  some 
girl  who  might  suit  poor  Mascarille  ?  As  I  see,  every  Jack 
has  his  Gill,  I  also  want  to  be  married. 

ANS.  I  have  a  wife  for  you. 

MASC.  Let  us  go,  then  ;  and  may  propitious  Heaven 
give  us  children,  whose  fathers  we  really  are. 


LE  DEPIT  AMOUREUX, 

COMEDIE. 


THE  LOVE-TIFF. 

A    COMEDY   IN    FIVE    ACTS, 

(THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 
1656. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


The  Love-tif  (Le  Depit-amoureux)  is  composed  of  two  pieces  joined 
together  The  first  and  longest  is  a  comparatively  modest  imitation  of  a 
very  coarse  and  indecent  Italian  comedy,  L'Interesse,  by  Signer  Nicolo 
Secchi-  its  intrigue  depends  chiefly  on  the  substitution  of  a  female  for  a 
male  child,  a  change  which  forms  the  groundwork  of  many  plays  and 
novels  and  of  which  Shakespeare  has  also  made  use.  The  second  and 
best  part  of  the  Love-tiff  belongs  to  Moliere  alone,  and  is  composed 
chiefly  of  the  whole  of  the  first  act,  the  first  six  verses  of  the  third  scene, 
and  the  whole  of  the  fourth  scene  of  the  second  act ;  these,  with  a  few 
alterations  and  a  few  lines  added,  form  the  comedy  which  the  Theatre 
Francaise  plays  at  the  present  time.  It  was  first  represented  at  Beziers 
towards  the  end  of  1656,  when  the  States  General  of  Languedoc  were  as- 
sembled in  that  town,  and  met  with  great  success  ;  a  success  which  con- 
tinued when  it  was  played  in  Paris  at  the  Theatre  du  Petit-Bourbon  in 
1658.  Why  in  some  of  the  former  English  translations  of  Moliere  the 
servant  Gros-Rend  is  called  ''  Gros-Renard  "  we  are  unable  to  under- 
stand, for  both  names  are  thoroughly  French.  Mr.  Ozell,  in  his  transla- 
tion, gives  him  the  unmistakably  English,  but  not  very  euphonious  name 
of  "punch-gutted  Ben,  alias  Renier,"  whilst  Foote  calls  him  "  Hugh.'' 
The  incidents  of  the  Love-tiff  are  arranged  artistically,  though  in  the 
Spanish  taste ;  the  plot  is  too  complicated,  and  the  ending  very  unnatural. 
But  the  characters  are  well  delineated,  and  fathers,  lovers,  mistresses,  and 
servants  all  move  about  amidst  a  complication  of  errors  from  which  there  is 
no  visible  disentangling.  The  conversation  between  Valere  and  Ascanio  in 
man's  clothes,  the  mutual  begging  pardon  of  Albert  and  Polydore,  the  na- 
tural astonishment  of  Lucile,  accused  in  the  presence  of  her  father,  and  the 
stratagem  of  Eraste  to  get  the  truth  from  his  servants,  are  all  described  in 
a  masterly  manner,  whilst  the  tiff  between  Eraste  and  Lucile,  which  gives 
the  title  to  the  piece,  as  well  as  their  reconciliation,  are  considered  among 
the  best  scenes  of  this  play. 

Nearly  all  actors  in  France  who  play  either  the  valets  or  the  soubrettes 
have  attempted  the  parts  of  Gros-Rene'  and  Marinette,  and  even  the 
great  tragedienne  Madlle.  Rachel  ventured,  on  the  ist  of  July,  1844,  to 
act  Marinette,  but  not  with  much  success. 

Dryden  has  imitated,  in  the  fourth  act  of  An  Evening's  Love,  a  small 
part  of  the  scene  between  Marinette  and  Eraste,  the  quarrelling  scene  be- 
tween Lucile,  Eraste,  Marinette,  and  Gros-Rene",  as  well  as  in  the  third 
act  of  the  same  play,  the  scene  between  Albert  and  Metaphrasrus.  Van- 
brugh  has  very  closely  followed  Moliere's  play  in  the  Mistake,  but  has  laid 

75 


76  THE   LOVE-TIFF. 

the  scene  in  Spain.  This  is  the  principal  difference  I  can  perceive.  He 
has  paraphased  the  French  with  a  spirit  and  ease  which  a  mere  transla- 
tion can  hardly  ever  acquire.  The  epilogue  to  his  play,  written  by  M. 
Motteux,  a  Frenchman,  whom  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes 
brought  into  England,  is  filthy  in  the  extreme.  Mr.  J.  King  has  curtailed 
Vanbrugh's  play  into  an  interlude,  in  one  act,  called  Lovers  Quarrels,  or 
Like  Master  Like  Man, 

Another  imitator  of  Moliere  was  Edward  Ravenscroft,  of  whom  Baker 
says  in  his  Biographia  Dramatica,  that  he  was  "  a  writer  or  compiler  of 
plays,  who  lived  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.  and  his  two  successors."  He 
was  descended  from  the  family  of  the  Ravenscrofts,  in  Flintshire  ;  a 
family,  as  he  himself,  in  a  dedication  asserts,  so  ancient  that  when  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror  came  into  England,  one  of  his  nobles  married  into  it. 
He  was  some  time  a  member  of  the  Middle  Temple  ;  but,  looking  on  the 
dry  study  of  the  law  as  greatly  beneath  the  attention  of  a  man  of  genius, 
quitted  it.  He  was  an  arrant  plagiary.  Dryden  attacked  one  of  his 
plays,  The  Citizen  turned  Gentleman,  an  imitation  of  Moliere's  Bourgeois- 
Gentilhomme,  in  the  Prologue  to  The  Assignation.  Ravenscroft  wrote 
"  The  Wrangling  Lovers,  or  the  Invisible  Mistress.  Acted  at  the  Duke's 
Theatre,  1677.  London,  Printed  for  William  Crook,  at  the  sign  of  the 
Green  Dragon,  without  Temple-Bar,  1677.''  Though  the  plot  was  partly 
taken  from  a  Spanish  novel,  the  author  has  been  inspired  by  Moliere's 
Depit  amoureux.  The  scene  is  in  Toledo :  Eraste  is  called  Don  Diego  de 
Stuniga,  Valere  Don  Gusman  de  Haro,  "  a  well-bred  cavaliere,"  Lucile 
is  Octavia  de  Pimentell,  and  Ascanio  is  Elvira  ;  Gros-Rene's  name  is 
Sanco,  "  vallet  to  Gusman,  a  simple  pleasant  fellow,"  and  Mascarille  is 
Ordgano,  "  a  cunning  knave;"  Marinette  is  called  Beatrice  and  Frosine 
Isabella.  The  English  play  is  rather  too  long.  Don  Gusman  courts  El- 
vira veiled,  whilst  in  the  French  play  Ascanio,  her  counterpart,  is  believed 
to  be  a  young  man.  There  is  also  a  brother  of  Donna  Elvira,  Don  Ruis 
de  Moncade,  who  is  a  rival  of  Don  Diego,  whilst  in  le  Depit-amoureux 
Valere  is  not  the  brother  but  the  husband  of  Ascanio  and  the  rival  of 
Eraste  (Don  Diego)  as  well.  The  arrangement  of  the  English  comedy 
differs  greatly  from  the  French.  Though  the  plot  in  both  plays  is  nearly 
identical,  yet  the  words  and  scenes  in  The  Wrangling  Lovers  are  totally 
different,  and  not  so  amusing.  Mascarille  and  Gros-Ren£  are  but  faintly 
attempted  ;  Marinette  and  Frosine  only  sketched  in  outline  ;  and  in  the 
fifth  act  the  ladies  appear  to  have  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  pop  in  and  out 
of  closets.  The  scenes  of" the  French  play  between  Albert  and  Meta- 
phrastus  (ii.  7) ;  the  very  comical  scene  between  Albert  and  Polydore  (iii.  4) 
and  the  reconciliation  scene  between  Lucile  and  Eraste  (iv.  3),  are  also 
not  rendered  in  the  English  comedy.  There  are  very  few  scenes  which 
can  be  compared  with  those  of  le  Depit  amoureux. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

ERASTE,  in  love  with  Luc  He. 
ALBERT,  father  to  Lucile.1 

s 

GROS-RENE,  servant  to  Eraste. 
VALERE,  son  to  Polydore. 
POLYDORE,  father  to   Valere. 
MASCARILLE,  servant  to   Valere. 
METAPHRASTUS,  a  pedant. 
LA  RAPIERE,  a  bully. 

LUCILE,  daughter  to  Albert. 
ASCANIO,  Albert's  daughter,  in  man's  clothes. 
FROSINE,  confidant  to  Ascanio. 
MARINETTE,  maid  to  Lucile. 

1  This  part  was  played  by  Moliere  himself. 


THE    LOVE-TIFF. 

(LE  DEPIT  AMOUR EUX.) 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — ERASTE,  GROS-RENE. 

ERAS.  Shall  I  declare  it  to  you?  A  certain  secret 
anxiety  never  leaves  my  mind  quite  at  rest.  Yes,  what- 
ever remarks  you  make  about  my  love,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  am  afraid  of  being  deceived ;  or  that  you  may  be 
bribed  in  order  to  favour  a  rival ;  or,  at  least,  that  you 
may  be  imposed  upon  as  well  as  myself. 

GR-RE.  As  for  me,  if  you  suspect  me  of  any  knavish 
trick,  I  will  say,  and  I  trust  I  give  no  offence  to  your 
honour's  love,  that  you  wound  my  honesty  very  unjustly, 
and  that  you  show  but  small  skill  in  physiognomy.  People 
of  my  bulk  are  not  accused,  thank  Heaven  !  '  of  being 
either  rogues  or  plotters.  I  scarcely  need  protest  against 
the  honour  paid  to  us,  but  am  straightforward  in  every 
thing.1  As  for  my  being  deceived  that  may  be ;  there  is 
a  better  foundation  for  that  idea ;  nevertheless,  I  do  not 
believe  it  can  be  easily  done.  I  may  be  a  fool,  but  I  do 
not  see  yet  why  you  vex  yourself  thus.  Lucile,  to  my 

1  Du  Pare,  the  actor  who  played  this  part,  was  very  stout ;  hence  the 
allusion  in  the  original,  "  et  suis  homme  fort  rond  de  toutes  Its  manieres." 
I  have,  of  course,  used  in  the  translation  the  word  "  straightforward " 
ironically,  and  with  an  eye  to  the  rotundity  of  stomach  of  the  actor. 
Moliere  was  rather  fond  of  making  allusions  in  his  plays  to  the  infirmities 
or  peculiarities  of  some  of  his  actors.  Thus,  in  the  Miser  (rAvare),  Act 
i,  Scene  3,  he  alludes  to  the  lameness  of  the  actor  Be"jart,  "  Je  ne  me 
plats  point  a  voir  ce  chien  de  doitevx-la"  "I  do  not  like  to  see  that  lame 
dog; ''  in  the  Citizen  who  apes  the  Nobleman  (le  Bourgeois  gentilhomme), 
Act  iii.  sc,  9,  he  even  gives  a  portrait  of  his  wife. 

79 


8o  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  i. 

thinking,  shows  sufficient  love  for  you  ;  she  sees  you  and 
talks  to  you,  at  all  times ;  and  Valere,  after  all,  who  is  the 
cause  of  your  fear,  seems  only  to  be  allowed  to  approach 
her  because  she  is  compelled  so  to  act. 

ERAS.  A  lover  is  often  buoyed  up  by  false  hope.  He 
who  is  best  received  is  not  always  the  most  beloved.  The 
affection  a  woman  displays  is  often  but  a  veil  to  cover  her 
passion  for  another.  Valere  has  lately  shown  too  much 
tranquillity  for  a  slighted  lover ;  and  the  joy  or  indif- 
ference he  displays  at  those  favours,  which  you  suppose  be- 
stowed upon  me,  embitters  continually  their  greatest 
charms,  causes  this  grief,  which  you  cannot  understand, 
holds  my  happiness  in  suspense,  and  makes  it  difficult  for 
me  to  trust  completely  anything  Lucile  says  to  me.  I 
should  feel  delighted  if  I  saw  Valere  animated  by  a  little 
more  jealousy  ;  his  anxiety  and  impatience  would  then  re- 
assure my  heart.  Do  you  as  yourself  think  it  possible  for 
any  one  to  see  a  rival  caressed  and  be  as  satisfied  as  he 
is ;  if  you  do  not  believe  it,  tell  me,  I  conjure  you,  if  I 
have  not  a  cause  to  be  perplexed  ? 

GR.-RE.  Perhaps  he  has  changed  his  inclination,  upon 
finding  that  he  sighed  in  vain. 

ERAS.  When  love  has  been  frequently  repelled  it  frees 
itself,  and  wishes  to  flee  from  the  object  it  was  charmed 
with  ;  nor  does  it  break  its  chain  so  quietly  as  to  be  able 
to  continue  at  peace.  When  once  we  have  been  fond  of 
anyone  who  influenced  our  destiny  we  are  never  afterwards 
indifferent  in  her  presence  ;  if  our  dislike  does  not  in- 
crease when  we  behold  her  our  love  is  upon  the  point  of 
returning  again.  Believe  me,  however  much  a  passion  may 
be  extinguished,  a  little  jealousy  still  dwells  in  our  breast ; 
no  one  can  see,  without  feeling  some  pang,  the  heart  he 
has  lost  possessed  by  another. 

GR.-RE.  For  my  part,  I  do  not  understand  so  much 
philosophy.  I  candidly  believe  what  my  eyes  see,  and  am 
not  such  a  mortal  enemy  to  myself  as  to  become  melan- 
choly without  any  cause.  Why  should  I  try  to  split  hairs, 
and  labour  hard  to  find  out  reasons  to  be  miserable  ?  Shall 
I  alarm  myself  about  castles  in  the  air  ?  Let  Lent  come 
before  we  keep  it !  I  think  grief  an  uncomfortable  thing ; 
and,  for  my  part,  I  never  foster  it  without  good  and  just 


SCENE  n.j  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  8l 

cause.  I  might  frequently  find  a  hundred  opportunities  to 
become  sad,  but  I  do  not  want  to  see  them.  I  run  the 
same  risk  in  love  as  you  do ;  I  share  in  your  bad  or  good 
luck.  The  mistress  cannot  deceive  you  but  the  maid  will 
do  the  same  by  me  ;  yet  I  carefully  avoid  thinking  about 
it.  I  like  to  believe  people  when  they  say  "I  love  you." 
In  order  to  be  happy,  I  do  not  try  to  find  out  whether 
Mascarille  tears  the  hair  out  of  his  head  or  not.  Let 
Marinette  allow  herself  to  be  kissed  and  caressed  by 
Gros-Rene2  as  much  as  he  likes,  and  let  my  charming  rival 
laugh  at  it  like  a  fool,  I  will  laugh  too  as  much  as  I  like, 
and  follow  his  example ;  we  shall  then  see  who  will  laugh 
the  heartiest. 

ERAS.  That  is  like  your  talk. 

GR.  RE.  But  here  she  comes. 

SCENE  II. — MARINETTE,  ERASTE,  GROS-RENE. 

GR.-RE.  Hist  !  Marinette. 

MAR.   Hallo  !  what  are  you  doing  there  ? 

GR.  -RE.  Faith  !  do  you  ask  ?  We  were  just  talking 
about  you. 

MAR.  Are  you  there  too,  sir?  Upon  my  word  you  have 
made  me  trot  about  like  a  flunkey  for  this  hour  past. 

ERAS.  How  so  ? 

MAR.  I  have  walked  ten  miles  to  look  for  you,  and  give 
you  my  word  that  .  .  . 

ERAS.  What? 

MAR.  That  you  were  neither  at  church,  in  the  fashion- 
able walk,  at  home,  nor  in  the  market-place. 

GR.-RE.  You  may  swear  to  that. 

ERAS.  But  pray,  tell  me  who  sent  you? 

MAR.  One,  in  good  truth,  who  bears  you  no  great 
ill-will ;  in  a  word,  my  mistress. 

ERAS.  Ah !  dear  Marinette,  do  your  words  really  express 
what  she  feels  ?  Do  not  hide  some  ominous  secret  from 
me.  I  should  not  dislike  you  for  this.  For  Heaven's 

1  In  several  editions  of  Moliere  we  find,  instead  of  Cros-Rene"  the  name 
of  Jodelet.  The  latest,  and  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  say  so,  the  most 
careful  editor  of  our  author,  Mons.  E.  Despois,  thinks  that  "Gros-Rene1' 
ought  to  be  mentioned  here.  The  sense  shows  he  is  right. 

VOL.  I.  F 


82  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  i. 

sake  tell  me  if  your  charming  mistress  does  not  merely 
pretend  to  love  me  ? 

MAR.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  What  has  put  that  funny  notion 
into  your  head  ?  Does  she  not  sufficiently  show  her  in- 
clination? What  further  security  does  your  love  demand? 
What  does  it  require? 

GR.-RE.  Unless  Valere  hangs  himself,  or  some  such 
trifle,  he  will  not  be  reassured. 

MAR.  How  so  ? 

GR.-RE.   He  is  so  very  jealous. 

MAR.  Of  Valere  ?  Ha  !  a  pretty  fancy  indeed  !  It 
could  only  be  hatched  in  your  brain.  I  thought  you  a 
man  of  sense,  and  until  now  had  a  good  opinion  of  your 
intellect ;  but  I  see  I  was  very  much  deceived.  Have  you 
also  got  a  touch  of  this  distemper  in  your  head  ? 

GR.-RE.  I  jealous  ?  Heaven  forbid  !  and  keep  me  from 
being  so  silly  as  to  go  and  make  myself  lean  with  any 
such  grief.  Your  heart  guarantees  your  fidelity ;  besides, 
I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  myself  to  believe  that  any 
other  could  please  you  after  me.  Where  the  deuce  could 
you  find  any  one  equal  to  me  ? 

MAR.  You  really  are  right ;  that  is  as  it  should  be.  A 
jealous  man  should  never  show  his  suspicions  !  All  that 
he  gains  by  it  is  to  do  himself  harm,  and  in  this  manner 
furthers  the  designs  of  his  rival.  Your  distrust  often  is 
the  cause  that  a  mistress  pays  attention  to  a  man,  before 
whose  merits  your  own  have  paled.  I  know  a  certain 
person  who,  were  it  not  for  the  preposterous  jealousy  of  a 
rival,  had  never  been  so  happy  as  he  now  is.  But,  in  any 
case,  to  show  suspicion  in  love  is  acting  a  foolish  part, 
and  after  all  is  to  make  one's-self  miserable  for  nothing. 
This,  sir  (to  Eraste),  I  mean  as  a  hint  to  you. 

ERAS.  Very  well,  let  us  talk  no  more  about  it.  What 
have  you  to  say  to  me  ? 

MAR.  You  deserve  to  be  kept  in  suspense.  In  order  to 
punish  you,  I  ought  to  keep  from  you  the  great  secret 
which  has  made  me  hunt  for  you  so  long.  Here,  read  this 
letter,  and  doubt  no  more.  Read  it  aloud,  nobody  listens. 

ERAS.  (Reads).  "You  told  me  that  your  love  was  capa- 
ble of  doing  anything.  It  may  be  crowned  this  very  day,  if 
you  can  but  get  my  father's  consent.  Acquaint  him  with  the 


SC.NBII.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  83 

power  you  have  oi>er  my  heart;  I  give  you  leave  so  to  do  ; 
if  his  reply  be  favourable,  I  can  answer  for  it  that  I  shall 
obey."  Ah!  how  happy  am  I!  I  ought  to  look  upon 
you,  the  bearer  of  this  letter,  as  a  divine  creature. 

GR.-RE.  I  told  you  so.  Though  you  do  not  believe  it, 
I  am  seldom  deceived  in  the  things  I  ponder  on. 

ERAS.  {Reading  the  letter  again).  "  Acquaint  him  with 
the  power  you  have  over  my  heart  j  I  give  you  leave  so  to 
do;  if  his  reply  be  favourable,  I  can  answer  for  it  that  I 
shall  obey. ' ' 

MAR.  If  I  should  tell  her  you  are  weak-  minded  enough 
to  be  jealous,  she  would  immediately  disown  such  a  letter 
as  this. 

ERAS.  I  beseech  you,  conceal  from  her  a  momentary 
fear,  for  which  I  thought  I  had  some  slight  foundation  ; 
or,  if  you  do  tell  it  her,  say  to  her  at  the  same  time  that  I 
am  ready  to  atone  for  my  fit  of  madness  with  my  life,  and 
would  die  at  her  feet,  if  I  have  been  capable  of  displeas- 
ing her. 

MAR.  Let  us  not  talk  of  dying ;  this  is  no  time  for  it. 

ERAS.  However,  you  have  laid  me  under  a  great  obli- 
gation ;  I  intend  shortly  to  acknowledge  in  a  handsome 
manner  the  trouble  so  gentle  and  so  lovely  a  messenger 
has  taken. 

MAR.  That  reminds  me.  Do  you  know  where  I  looked 
for  you  just  now  ? 

ERAS.  Well? 

MAR.  Quite  near  the  market-place  ;  you  know  where' 
that  is. 

ERAS.  Where  did  you  say  ? 

MAR.  There  ...  in  that  shop  where  last  month  you 
generously  and  freely  promised  me  a  ring. 

ERAS.  Um  !  I  understand  you. 

GR.-RE.  What  a  cunning  jade  ! 

ERAS.  It  is  true ;  I  have  delayed  too  long  to  make  good 
my  promise  to  you,  but  .  .  . 

MAR.  What  I  said,  sir,  was  not  because  I  wished  you 
to  make  haste. 

GR.-RE.  Oh,  no  ! 

ERAS.  (Giving  her  his  ring).  Perhaps  this  ring  may 
please  you  ;  accept  it  instead  of  the  one  I  owe. 


84  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  i. 

MAR.  You  are  only  jesting,  sir ;  I  should  be  ashamed 
to  take  it. 

GR.-RE.  Poor  shame-faced  creature  !  Take  it  without 
more  ado  ;  only  fools  refuse  what  is  offered  them. 

MAR.  I  will  only  accept  it  so  that  I  may  have  something 
to  remember  you  by. 

ERAS.  When  may  I  return  thanks  to  that  lovely  angel  ? 

MAR.  Endeavour  to  gain  over  her  father. 

ERAS.   But  if  he  rejects  me,  should  I  .    .    .  ? 

MAR.  We  will  think  about  that  when  he  does  so  !  We 
will  do  our  utmost  for  you  :  one  way  or  another  she  must 
be  yours  ;  do  your  best,  and  we  will  do  ours. 

ERAS.  Farewell !  we  shall  know  our  fate  to-day.  {Eraste 
reads  the  letter  again  to  himself^). 

MAR.  {To  Gros-Rene).  Well,  what  shall  we  say  of  our 
love  ?  You  do  not  speak  to  me  of  it. 

GR.-RE.  If  such  people  as  we  wish  to  be  married,  the 
thing  is  soon  done.  I  will  have  you.  Will  you  have  me  ? 

MAR.  Gladly. 

GR.-RE.  Shake  hands,  that  is  enough. 

MAR.   Farewell,  Gros-Rene,  my  heart's  delight. 

GR.-RE.   Farewell,  my  star. 

MAR.  Farewell,  fair  fire-brand  of  my  flame. 

GR.-RE.  Farewell,  dear  comet,  rainbow  of  my  soul. 
{Exit  Marinette).  Heaven  be  praised,  our  affairs  go  on 
swimmingly.  Albert  is  not  a  man  to  refuse  you  anything. 

ERAS.  Valere  is  coming  here. 

GR.-RE.  I  pity  the  poor  wretch,  knowing  what  I  do 
know. 

SCENE  III. — ERASTE,  VALERE,  GROS-RENE.  ' 

ERAS.  Well,  Valere  ? 
VAL.  Well,  Eraste  ? 
ERAS.   How  does  your  love  prosper  ? 
VAL.  And  how  does  yours  ? 
ERAS.  It  grows  stronger  and  stronger  every  day. 
VAL.  So  does  mine. 
ERAS.  For  Lucile  ? 
VAL.  For  her. 

ERAS.  Certainly,  I  must  own,  you  are  a  pattern  of  un- 
common constancy. 


SCENE  in.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  85 

VAL.  And  your  perseverance  will  be  a  rare  example  to 
posterity. 

ERAS.  As  for  me,  I  am  not  very  fond  of  that  austere 
kind  of  love  which  is  satisfied  with  looks  only  ;  nor  do  I 
possess  feelings  lofty  enough  to  endure  ill-treatment  with 
constancy.  In  one  word,  when  I  really  love,  I  wish  to  be 
beloved  again. 

VAL.  It  is  very  natural,  and  I  am  of  the  same  opinion. 
I  would  never  do  homage  to  the  most  perfect  object  by 
whom  I  could  be  smitten,  if  she  did  not  return  my  passion. 

ERAS.  However,  Lucile  .    .    . 

VAL.  Lucile  does  willingly  everything  my  passion  can 
desire. 

ERAS.  You  are  easily  satisfied  then. 

VAL.  Not  so  easily  as  you  may  think. 

ERAS.  I,  however,  may,  without  vanity,  believe  that  I 
am  in  her  favour. 

VAL.  And  I  know  that  I  have  a  very  good  share  of  it. 

ERAS.   Do  not  deceive  yourself;  believe  me. 

VAL.  Believe  me,  do  not  be  too  credulous,  and  take  too 
much  for  granted. 

ERAS.  If  I  might  show  you  a  certain  proof  that  her 
heart  .  .  .  but  no,  it  would  too  much  distress  you. 

VAL.  If  I  might  discover  a  secret  to  you  .  -  .  but  it 
might  grieve  you,  and  so  I  will  be  discreet. 

ERAS.  You  really  urge  me  too  far,  and  though  much 
against  my  will,  I  see  I  must  lower  your  presumption. 
Read  that. 

VAL.  (After  having  read  the  letter).  These  are  tender 
words. 

ERAS.  You  know  the  handwriting  ? 

VAL.  Yes,  it  is  Lucile's. 

ERAS.  Well !  where  is  now  your  boasted  certainty  .  .  .  ? 

VAL.   (Smiling  and  going  away).     Farewell,  Eraste. 

GR.-RE.  He  is  mad,  surely.  What  reason  has  he  to 
laugh  ? 

ERAS.  He  certainly  surprises  me,  and  between  ourselves 
I  cannot  imagine  what  the  deuce  of  a  mystery  is  hidden 
under  this. 

GR.  -RE.  Here  comes  his  servant,  I  think. 

ERAS.  Yes,  it  is  he ;  let  us  play  the  hypocrite,  to  set 
him  talking  about  his  master's  love. 


86  THE  LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  I. 

SCENE  IV. — ERASTE,  MASCARILLE,   GROS-RENE. 

MASC.  (Asidi).  No,  I  do  not  know  a  more  wretched 
situation,  than  to  have  a  young  master,  very  much  in  love. 

GR.-RE.  Good  morning. 

MASC.  Good  morning. 

GR.-RE.  Where  is  Mascarille  going  just  now?  What  is 
he  doing?  Is  he  coming  back  ?  Is  he  going  away?  Or 
does  he  intend  to  stay  where  he  is  ? 

MASC.  No,  I  am  not  coming  back,  because  I  have  not 
yet  been  where  I  am  going ;  nor  am  I  going,  for  I  am 
stopped ;  nor  do  I  design  to  stay,  for  this  very  moment  I 
intend  to  be  gone. 

ERAS.  You  are  very  abrupt,  Mascarille ;  gently. 

MASC.   Ha  !  Your  servant,  sir. 

ERAS.  You  are  in  great  haste  to  run  away  from  us  : 
what  !  do  I  frighten  you  ? 

MASC.  You  are  too  courteous  to  do  that. 

ERAS.  Shake  hands ;  all  jealousy  is  now  at  an  end  be- 
tween us;  we  will  be  friends;  I  have  relinquished  my 
love ;  henceforth  you  can  have  your  own  way  to  further 
your  happiness. 

MASC.  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  true  ! 

ERAS.  Gros-Rene  knows  that  I  have  already  another 
flame  elsewhere. 

GR.-RE.  Certainly;  and  I  also  give  up  Marinette  to 
you. 

MASC.  Do  not  let  us  touch  on  that  point ;  our  rivalry 
is  not  likely  to  go  to  such  a  length.  But  is  it  certain,  sir, 
that  you  are  no  longer  in  love,  or  do  you  jest  ? 

ERAS.  I  have  been  informed  that  your  master  is  but  too 
fortunate  in  his  amours ;  I  should  be  a  fool  to  pretend 
any  longer  to  gain  the  same  favours  which  that  lady  grants 
to  him  alone. 

MASC.  Certainly,  you  please  me  with  this  news.  Though 
I  was  rather  afraid  of  you,  with  regard  to  our  plans,  yet 
you  do  wisely  to  slip  your  neck  out  of  the  collar.  You 
have  done  well  to  leave  a  house  where  you  were  only 
caressed  for  form's  sake ;  I,  knowing  all  that  was  going 
on,  have  many  times  pitied  you,  because  you  were  allured 
by  expectations,  which  could  never  be  realized.  It  is  a 


SCENE  iv.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  87 

sin  and  a  shame  to  deceive  a  gentleman  !  But  how  the 
deuce,  after  all,  did  you  find  out  the  trick?  For  when 
they  plighted  their  faith  to  each  other  there  were  no  wit- 
nesses but  night,  myself,  and  two  others  ;  and  the  tying 
of  the  knot,  which  satisfies  the  passion  of  our  lovers,  is 
thought  to  have  been  kept  a  secret  till  now. 

ERAS.  Ha  !     What  do  you  say? 

MASC.  I  say  that  I  am  amazed,  sir,  and  cannot  guess 
who  told  you,  that  under  this  mask,  which  deceives  you 
and  everybody  else,  a  secret  marriage  unites  their  match- 
less love. 

ERAS.  You  lie. 

MASC.   Sir,  with  all  my  heart. 

ERAS.  You  are  a  rascal. 

MASC.  I  acknowledge  I  am. 

ERAS.  And  this  impudence  deserves  a  sound  beating  on 
the  spot. 

MASC.  I  am  completely  in  your  power, 

ERAS.  Ha  !  Gros-Ren6. 

GR.-RE.  Sir? 

ERAS.  I  contradict  a  story,  which  I  much  fear  is  but 
too  true.  (  To  Mascarille).  You  wanted  to  run  away. 

MASC.  Not  in  the  least. 

ERAS.   What !  Lucile  is  married  to  ... 

MASC.  No,  sir,  I  was  only  joking. 

ERAS.  Hey !  you  were  joking,  you  wretch  ? 

MASC.   No,  I  was  not  joking. 

ERAS.  Is  it  true  then  ? 

MASC.   No,  I  do  not  say  that. 

ERAS.   What  do  you  say  then  ? 

MASC.  Alas !  I  say  nothing,  for  fear  of  saying  some- 
thing wrong. 

ERAS.  Tell  me  positively,  whether  you  have  spoken  the 
truth,  or  deceived  me. 

MASC.  Whatever  you  please.  I  do  not  come  here  to 
contradict  you. 

ERAS.  {Drawing  his  sworcf).  Will  you  tell  me  ?  Here 
is  something  that  will  loosen  your  tongue  without  more 
ado. 

MASC.  It  will  again  be  saying  some  foolish  speech  or 
other.  I  pray  you,  if  you  have  no  objection,  let  me 


88  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT ,. 

quickly  have  a  few  stripes,  and  then  allow  me  to  scam- 
per off. 

ERAS.  You  shall  suffer  death,  unless  you  tell  me  the 
whole  truth  without  disguise. 

MASC.  Alas !  I  will  tell  it  then ;  but  perhaps,  sir,  I 
shall  make  you  angry. 

ERAS.  Speak :  but  take  great  care  what  you  are  doing ; 
nothing  shall  save  you  from  my  just  anger,  if  you  utter  but 
one  single  falsehood  in  your  narration. 

MASC.  I  agree  to  it;  break  my  legs,  arms,  do  worse  to 
me  still,  kill  me,  if  I  have  deceived  you  in  the  smallest 
degree,  in  anything  I  have  said. 

ERAS.  It  is  true  then  that  they  are  married? 

MASC.  With  regard  to  this,  I  can  now  clearly  see  that 
my  tongue  tripped ;  but,  for  all  that,  the  business  happened 
just  as  I  told  you.  It  was  after  five  visits  paid  at  night, 
and  whilst  you  were  made  use  of  as  a  screen  to  conceal 
their  proceedings,  that  they  were  united  the  day  before 
yesterday.  Lucile  ever  since  tries  still  more  to  hide  the 
great  love  she  bears  my  master,  and  desires  he  will  only 
consider  whatever  he  may  see,  and  whatever  favours  she 
may  show  you,  as  the  results  of  her  deep-laid  scheme,  in 
order  to  prevent  the  discovery  of  their  secrets.  If,  not- 
withstanding my  protestations,  you  doubt  the  truth  of  what 
I  have  told  you,  Gros-Ren6  may  come  some  night  along 
with  me,  and  I  will  show  him,  as  I  stand  and  watch,  that 
we  shall  be  admitted  into  her  house,  after  dark. 

ERAS.   Out  of  my  sight,  villain. 

MASC.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go ;  that  is  just  what  I 
want.  (Exit. 

SCENE  V. — ERASTE,  GROS-RENE. 

ERAS.  Well? 

GR.  -RE.  Well !  Sir,  we  are  both  taken  in  if  this  fellow 
•speaks  the  truth. 

ERAS.  Alas  !  The  odious  rascal  has  spoken  the  truth 
too  well.  All  that  he  has  said  is' very  likely  to  have  hap- 
pened ;  Valere's  behaviour,  at  the  sight  of  this  letter,  de- 
notes that  there  is  a  collusion  between  them,  and  that  it 
is  a  screen  to  hide  Lucile's  love  for  him. 


SCBNBVI.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  89 

SCENE  VI. — ERASTE,  MARINETTE,  GROS-RENE. 

MAR.  I  come  to  tell  you  that  this  evening  my  mistress 
permits  you  to  see  her  in  the  garden. 

ERAS.  How  dare  you  address  me,  you  hypocritical 
traitress  ?  Get  out  of  my  sight,  and  tell  your  mistress  not 
to  trouble  me  any  more  with  her  letters ;  that  is  the  re- 
gard, wretch,  I  have  for  then^ 

(He  tears  the  letter  and  goes  out. 

MAR.  Tell  me,  Gros-Rene,  what  ails  him  ? 

GR.-RE.  Dare  you  again  address  me,  iniquitous  female, 
deceitful  crocodile,  whose  base  heart  is  worse  than  a  satrap 
or  a  Lestrigon  ? 3  Go,  go,  carry  your  answer  to  your 
lovely  mistress,  and  tell  her  short  and  sweet,  that  in  spite 
of  all  her  cunning,  neither  my  master  nor  I  are  any  longer 
fools,  and  that  henceforth  she  and  you  may  go  to  the  devil 
together.  (Exit. 

MAR.  My  poor  Marinette,  are  you  quite  awake  ?  What 
demon  are  they  possessed  by?  What?  Is  it  thus  they 
receive  our  favours  ?  How  shocked  my  mistress  will  be 
when  she  hears  this  ! 

ACT  II. 
SCENE  I. — ASCANIO,  FROSINE. 

FROS.  Thank  Heaven !  I  am  a  girl  who  can  keep  a 
secret,  Ascanio. 

Asc.  But  is  this  place  private  enough  for  such  a  conver- 
sation ?  Let  us  take  care  that  nobody  surprises  us,  or  that 
we  be  not  overheard  from  some  corner  or  other. 

FROS.  We  should  be  much  less  safe  within  the  house ; 
here  we  can  easily  see  anybody  coming,  and  may  speak  in 
perfect  safety. 

Asc.  Alas !  how  painful  it  is  for  me  to  begin  my  tale  ! 

FROS.  Sure,  this  must  be  an  important  secret  then  ? 

Asc.  Too  much  so,  since  I  even  entrust  it  to  you  with 
reluctance ;  even  you  should  not  know  it,  if  I  could  keep 
it  concealed  any  longer. 

FROS.  Fie  !  you  insult  me  when  you  hesitate  to  trust  in 
me,  whom  you  have  ever  found  so  reserved  in  everything 

8  See  Homer's  Odyssey,  X.,  v.  81-132. 


90  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  11. 

that  concerns  you — me,  who  was  brought  up  with  you,  and 
have  kept  secret  things  of  so  great  an  importance  to  you ; 
me,  who  know  .  .  . 

Asc.  Yes,  you  are  already  acquainted  with  the  secret 
reason  which  conceals  from  the  eyes  of  the  world  my  sex 
and  family.  You  know  that  I  was  brought  into  this  house, 
where  I  have  passed  my  infancy,  in  order  to  preserve  an 
inheritance  which,  on  the  death  of  young  Ascanio  (whom 
I  personate),  should  have  fallen  to  others ;  that  is  why  I 
dare  to  unbosom  myself  to  you  with  perfect  confidence. 
But  before  we  begin  this  conversation,  Frosine,  clear  up  a 
doubt  which  continually  besets  me.  Can  it  be  possible 
that  Albert  should  know  nothing  of  the  secret,  which  thus 
disguises  my  sex,  and  makes  him  my  father? 

PROS.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  what  you  now  wish  to 
know  has  also  greatly  puzzled  me.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  intrigue,  nor  could  my 
mother  give  me  any  further  insight.  When  Albert's  son 
died,  who  was  so  much  beloved,  and  to  whom  a  very  rich 
uncle  bequeathed  a  great  deal  of  property,  even  before  his 
birth  ;  his  mother  kept  his  death  secret,  fearing  that  her 
husband,  who  was  absent  at  the  time,  would  have  gone 
distracted,  had  he  seen  that  great  inheritance,  from  which 
his  family  would  have  reaped  such  advantage,  pass  into  the 
hands  of  another.  She,  I  say,  in  order  to  conceal  this 
misfortune  formed  the  plan  of  putting  you  into  the  place 
of  her  lost  son;  you  were  taken  from  our  family,  where 
you  were  brought  up.  Your  mother  gave  her  consent  to 
this  deceit ;  you  took  the  son's  place,  and  every  one  was 
bribed  to  keep  the  secret.  Albert  has  never  known  it 
through  us,  and  as  his  wife  kept  it  for  more  than  twelve 
years,  and  died  suddenly,  her  unexpected  death  prevented 
her  from  disclosing  it.  I  perceive,  however,  that  he  keeps 
up  an  acquaintance  with  your  real  mother,  and  that,  in 
private,  he  assists  her ;  perhaps  all  this  is  not  done  with- 
out a  reason.  On  the  other  hand,  he  commits  a  blunder 
by  urging  you  to  marry  some  young  lady  !  Perhaps  he 
knows  that  you  took  the  place  of  his  son,  without  knowing 
that  you  are  a  girl.  But  this  digression  might  gradually 
carry  us  too  far ;  let  us  return  to  that  secret  which  I  am 
impatient  to  hear. 


SCENE  i.j  THE  LOVE-TIFF.  9! 

Asc.  Know  then  that  Cupid  cannot  be  deceived,  that  I 
have  not  been  able  to  disguise  my  sex  from  love's  eyes, 
and  that  his  subtle  shafts  have  reached  the  heart  of  a  weak 
woman  beneath  the  dress  I  wear.  In  four  words,  I  am 
in  love  ! 

FROS.  You  in  love  ! 

Asc.  Gently,  Frosine ;  do  not  be  quite  so  astonished  ; 
it  is  not  time  yet ;  this  love-sick  heart  has  something  else 
to  tell  you  that  will  surprise  you. 

FROS.  What  is  it  ? 

Asc.  I  am  in  love  with  Valere. 

FROS.  Ha  !  I  really  am  surprised.  What !  you  love  a 
man  whose  family  your  deceit  has  deprived  of  a  rich  in- 
heritance, and  who,  if  he  had  the  least  suspicion  of  your 
sex,  would  immediately  regain  everything.  This  is  a  still 
greater  subject  of  astonishment. 

Asc.  I  have  a  more  wonderful  surprise  for  you  yet  in 
store — I  am  his  wife. 

FROS.  Oh,  Heavens  !  his  wife  ! 

Asc.  Yes,  his  wife. 

FROS.  Ha !  this  is  worse  than  all,  and  nearly  drives 
me  mad. 

Asc.  And  yet  this  is  not  all. 

FROS.  Not  all ! 

Asc.  I  am  his  wife,  I  say,  and  he  does  not  think  so,  nor 
has  he  the  least  idea  of  what  I  really  am. 

FROS.  Go  on,  I  give  it  up,  and  will  not  say  any  thing 
more,  so  much  every  word  amazes  me.  I  cannot  compre- 
hend anything  of  these  riddles. 

Asc.  I  shall  explain  if  you  will  but  hear  me.  Valere 
who  admired  my  sister,  seemed  to  me  a  lover  worthy  of 
being  listened  to ;  I  could  not  bear  to  see  his  addresses 
slighted  without  feeling  a  certain  interest  in  him.  I  wished 
that  Lucile  should  take  pleasure  in  his  conversation,  I 
blamed  her  severity,  and  blamed  it  so  effectually,  that  I 
myself,  without  being  able  to  help  it,  became  affected  with 
that  passion  which  she  could  not  entertain.  He  was  talking 
to  her,  and  persuaded  me ;  I  suffered  myself  to  be  over- 
come by  the  very  sighs  he  breathed  ;  and  the  love,  rejected 
by  the  object  of  his  flame,  entered,  like  a  conqueror,  into 
my  heart,  which  was  wounded  by  an  arrow,  not  aimed  at 


92  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  „. 

it,  and  paid  another's  debt  with  heavy  interest.  At  last, 
my  dear,  the  love  I  felt  for  him  forced  me  to  declare  my- 
self, but  under  a  borrowed  name.  One  night  I  spoke  to 
him,  disguising  my  voice  as  if  it  were  Lucile's,  and  this 
too  amiable  lover  thought  she  returned  his  love ;  I  ma- 
naged the  conversation  so  well  that  he  never  found  out 
the  deception.  Under  that  disguise  which  pleased  so 
much  his  deluded  imagination,  I  told  him  that  I  was  en- 
amoured of  him,  but  that,  finding  my  father  opposed  to 
my  wishes,  I  ought  at  least  to  pretend  to  obey  him ;  that 
therefore  it  behooved  us  to  keep  our  love  secret,  with 
which  the  night  alone  should  be  acquainted  ;  that  all 
private  conversation  should  be  avoided  during  the  day, 
for  fear  of  betraying  everything  ;  that  he  should  behold 
me  with  the  same  indifference  as  he  did  before  we  had 
come  to  an  understanding ;  and  that  on  his  part,  as 
well  as  mine,  no  communication  should  take  place  either 
by  gesture,  word,  or  writing.  In  short,  without  dwelling 
any  longer  upon  all  the  pains  I  have  taken  to  bring  this 
deception  to  a  safe  termination,  I  went  on  with  my  bold 
project  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to  go,  and  secured  the 
husband  I  mentioned  to  you. 

FROS.  Upon  my  word,  you  possess  great  talents.  Would 
any  one  think  so,  on  seeing  her  passionless  countenance  ? 
However,  you  have  been  pretty  hasty,  and  though  I  grant 
that  the  affair  has  succeeded  until  now,  what  do  you  think 
will  be  the  end  of  it,  for  it  cannot  be  long  concealed  ? 

Asc.  When  love  is  strong  it  overcomes  all  obstacles, 
until  it  is  satisfied  ;  provided  it  reaches  the  wished-for 
goal,  it  looks  upon  everything  else  as  a  mere  trifle.  I 
have  told  you  all  to-day,  so  that  your  advice  .  .  .  But 
here  comes  my  husband. 


SCENE  II. — VALERE,  ASCANIO,  FROSINE. 

VAL.  If  you  are  conversing,  and  if  my  presence  is  any 
interruption,  I  shall  withdraw. 

Asc.  No ;  you  may  well  interrupt  it,  since  we  were 
talking  about  you. 

VAL.  About  me  ? 

Asc.  About  yourself. 


SCENE  ii.J  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  93 

VAL.  How  so  ? 

Asc.  I  was  saying,  that  if  I  had  been  a  woman,  Valere 
would  have  been  able  to  please  me  but  too  well,  and  that 
if  I  had  been  beloved  by  him,  I  should  not  have  delayed 
long  to  make  him  happy. 

VAL.  This  declaration  does  not  cost  you  much,  as  there 
is  such  an  if  in  the  way  ;  but  you  would  be  finely  caught 
if  some  miraculous  event  should  put  to  the  proof  the  truth 
of  so  obliging  a  declaration. 

Asc.  Not  in  the  least ;  I  tell  you  that  if  I  reigned  in 
your  heart,  I  would  very  willingly  crown  your  passion. 

VAL.  And  what,  if  you  might  contribute  to  my  happi- 
ness, by  assisting  me  to  further  my  love? 

Asc.  I  should  then,  certainly,  disappoint  you. 

VAL.  This  admission  is  not  very  polite. 

Asc.  What,  Valere?  Supposing  I  were  a  woman  and 
loved  you  tenderly,  would  you  be  so  cruel  as  to  make  me 
promise  to  aid  you  in  your  love  for  another  lady  ?  I  could 
not  perform  such  a  painful  task. 

VAL.  But  you  are  not  a  woman. 

Asc.  What  I  said  to  you  I  said  in  the  character  of  a 
woman,  and  you  ought  to  take  it  so. 

VAL.  Thus  I  ought  not  to  imagine  you  like  me,  Ascanio, 
unless  Heaven  works  a  miracle  in  you.  Therefore,  as  you 
are  not  a  woman,  I  bid  farewell  to  your  affection  ;  you  do 
not  care  in  the  least  for  me. 

Asc.  My  feelings  are  far  more  nice  than  people  imagine, 
and  the  smallest  misgiving  shocks  me  when  love  is  in  the 
case.  But  I  am  sincere  ;  I  will  not  promise  to  aid  you, 
Valere,  unless  you  assure  me  that  you  entertain  precisely 
the  same  sentiments  for  me ;  that  you  feel  the  same  warmth 
of  friendship  for  me  as  I  feel  for  you ;  and  that  if  I  were 
a  woman  you  would  love  no  one  better  than  me. 

VAL.  I  never  before  heard  of  such  a  jealous  scruple,  but 
though  quite  unexpected,  this  affection  obliges  me  to 
make  some  return  for  it ;  I  here  promise  you  all  you  re- 
quire of  me. 

Asc.  But  sincerely? 

VAL.  Yes,  sincerely. 

Asc.  If  this  be  true,  I  promise  you  that  henceforth 
your  interests  shall  be  mine. 


94  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  ii. 

VAL.  I  have  a  secret  of  the  utmost  consequence  to  re- 
veal to  you  by  and  by,  and  then  I  shall  remind  you  of 
your  words. 

Asc.  And  I  have  likewise  a  secret  to  discover  to  you, 
wherein  your  affection  for  me  may  show  itself. 

VAL.  Indeed  !  what  can  that  be  ? 

Asc.  I  have  a  love  affair  which  I  dare  not  reveal,  and 
you  have  influence  enough  over  the  object  of  my  passion 
to  promote  my  happiness. 

VAL.  Explain  yourself,  Ascanio,  and  be  assured  before- 
hand that,  if  your  happiness  lies  in  my  power,  it  is  certain. 

Asc.  You  promise  more  than  you  imagine. 

VAL.  No,  no ;  tell  me  the  name  of  the  person  whom  I 
have  to  influence. 

Asc.  It  is  not  yet  time,  but  it  is  a  person  who  is  nearly 
related  to  you. 

VAL.  Your  words  amaze  me ;  would  to  Heaven  my 
sister  .  .  . 

Asc.  This  is  not  the  proper  time  to  explain  myself,  I 
tell  you. 

VAL.  Why  so? 

Asc.  For  a  certain  reason.  You  shall  know  my  secret 
when  I  know  yours. 

VAL.  I  must  have  another  person's  permission  before  I 
can  discover  it  to  you. 

Asc.  Obtain  it  then  ;  and  when  we  shall  have  explained 
ourselves  we  shall  see  which  of  us  two  will  best  keep  his 
word. 

VAL.  Farewell,  I  accept  your  offer. 

Asc.  And  I  will  be  bound  by  it,  Valere.  (Exit  Valere.} 

FROS.   He  thinks  you  will  help  him  as  a  brother. 

SCENE  III. — LUCILE,  ASCANIO,  MARINETTE,  FROSINE. 

Luc.  (Saying  the  first  words  to  Marinette}.  I  have  done 
it;  it  is  thus  I  can  revenge  myself;  if  this  step  torments 
him,  it  will  be  a  great  consolation  to  me  .  .  .  Brother, 
you  perceive  a  change  in  me ;  I  am  resolved  to  love 
Valere,  after  so  much  ill-usage ;  he  shall  become  the  ob- 
ject of  my  affection. 

Asc.  What  do  you  say,  sister?  How  do  you  change  so 
suddenly  ?  This  inconstancy  seems  to  me  very  strange. 


SCBNB  iv.j  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  95 

Luc.  Your  change  of  disposition  has  more  cause  to  sur- 
prise me.  You  formerly  used  always  to  plead  in  favour 
of  Valere  ;  for  his  sake  you  have  accused  me  of  caprice, 
blind  cruelty,  pride  and  injustice  ;  and  now,  when  I  wish 
to  love  him,  my  intention  displeases  you,  and  I  find  you 
speaking  against  his  interest. 

Asc.  I  abandon  his  interest,  sister,  out  of  regard  to 
yours.  I  know  he  is  under  the  sway  of  another  fair  one  ; 
it  will  be  a  discredit  to  your  charms  if  you  call  him  back, 
and  he  does  not  come. 

Luc.  If  that  is  all,  I  shall  take  care  not  to  suffer  a  de- 
feat ;  I  know  what  I  am  to  believe  of  his  passion ;  he  has 
shown  it  very  clearly,  at  least  so  I  think  ;  you  may  safely 
discover  my  sentiments  to  him  :  or  if  you  refuse  to  do  it, 
I,  myself,  shall  let  him  know  that  his  passion  has  touched 
me.  What !  you  stand  thunderstruck,  brother,  at  those 
words ! 

Asc.  Oh,  sister,  if  I  have  any  influence  over  you,  if 
you  will  listen  to  a  brother's  entreaties,  abandon  such  a 
design  ;  do  not  take  away  Valere  from  the  love  of  a  young 
creature,  in  whom  I  feel  great  interest,  and  for  whom, 
upon  my  word,  you  ought  to  feel  some  sympathy.  The 
poor  unfortunate  woman  loves  him  to  distraction  ;  to  me 
alone  she  has  disclosed  her  passion ;  I  perceive  in  her  heart 
such  a  tender  affection,  that  it  might  soften  even  the  most 
relentless  being.  Yes,  you  yourself  will  pity  her  condi- 
tion when  she  shall  become  aware  with  what  stroke  you 
threaten  to  crush  her  love ;  so  sure  am  I  of  the  excess  of 
her  grief,  that  I  am  certain,  sister,  she  will  die,  if  you  rob 
her  of  the  man  she  adores.  Eraste  is  a  match  that  ought 
to  satisfy  you,  and  the  mutual  affection  you  have  for  one 
another  .  .  . 

Luc.  Brother,  it  is  sufficient !  I  do  not  know  in  whom 
you  take  such  an  interest ;  but  let  us  not  continue  this 
conversation,  I  beg  of  you  ;  leave  me  a  little  to  my  own 
thoughts. 

Asc.  Cruel  sister,  you  will  drive  me  to  despair  if  you 
carry  your  design  into  execution. 

SCENE  IV. — LUCILE,  MARINETTE. 
MAR.  Your  resolution,  madam,  is  very  sudden. 


96  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  „. 

Luc.  A  heart  considers  nothing  when  it  is  once  af- 
fronted, but  flies  to  its  revenge,  and  eagerly  lays  hold  of 
whatever  it  thinks  can  minister  to  its  resentment.  The 
wretch  !  To  treat  me  with  such  extreme  insolence  ! 

MAR.  You  see  I  have  not  yet  recovered  the  effects ; 
though  I  were  to  brood  over  it  to  all  eternity,  I  cannot 
understand  it,  and  all  my  labour  is  in  vain.  For  never 
did  a  lover  express  more  delight  on  receiving  good  news  ; 
.so  pleased  was  he  with  your  kind  note  that  he  called  me 
nothing  less  than  a  divine  creature;  and  yet,  when  I 
brought  him  the  other  message,  there  was  never  a  poor 
girl  treated  so  scurvily.  I  cannot  imagine  what  could 
happen  in  so  short  a  time  to  occasion  so  great  a  change. 

Luc.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  what  may  have 
happened,  since  nothing  shall  secure  him  against  my 
hatred.  What !  do  you  think  there  is  any  secret  reason 
for  this  affront  but  his  own  baseness  ?  Does  the  unfor- 
tunate letter  I  sent  him,  and  for  which  I  now  blame  my- 
self, present  the  smallest  excuse  for  his  madness  ? 

MAR.  Indeed,  I  must  say  you  are  right ;  this  quarrel  is 
downright  treachery ;  we  have  both  been  duped,  and  yet, 
madam,  we  listen  to  these  faithless  rascals  who  promise 
everything ;  who,  in  order  to  hook  us,  feign  so  much  ten- 
derness; we  let  our  severity  melt  before  their  fine  speeches, 
and  yield  to  their  wishes,  because  we  are  too  weak  !  A 
sharn,e  on  our  folly,  and  a  plague  take  the  men  ! 

Luc.  Well,  well !  let  him  boast  and  laugh  at  us ;  he 
shall  not  long  have  cause  to  triumph ;  I  will  let  him  see 
that  in  a  well-balanced  mind  hatred  follows  close  on 
slighted  favours. 

MAR.  At  least,  in  such  a  case,  it  is  a  great  happiness  to 
know  that  we  are  not  in  their  power.  Notwithstanding 
all  that  was  said,  Marinette  was  right  the  other  night  to 
interfere  when  some  people  were  in  a  very  merry  mood. 
Another,  in  hopes  of  matrimony,  would  have  listened  to 
the  temptation,  but  nescio  vos,  quoth  I.* 

Luc.  How  foolishly  you  talk ;  how  ill  you  choose  your 

4  These  two  Latin  words,  which  were  in  very  common  use  in  France, 
during  MoliSre's  time,  are  taken  from  the  Vulgate,  Matthew  xxv.  1 2  : 
"Doming,  doming,  apgri  nobis.'' — At  ille  rgspondens  ait:  "Amen  dico 
vobis,  nescio  vos." 


SCENE  vi.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  97 

time  to  joke  !  My  heart  is  full  of  grief.  If  ever  fate  wills 
it  that  this  false  lover, — but  I  am  in  the  wrong  to  conceive 
at  present  any  such  expectation  ;  for  Heaven  has  been  too 
well  pleased  to  afflict  me  to  put  it  in  my  power  to  be  re- 
venged on  him, — but  if  ever  a  propitious  fate,  I  say,  should 
cause  Eraste  to  come  back  to  me,  and  lay  down  his  life  as 
a  sacrifice  at  my  feet,  as  well  as  declare  his  sorrow  for 
what  he  has  done  to-day,  I  forbid  you,  above  all  things, 
to  speak  to  me  in  his  favour.  On  the  contrary,  I  would 
have  you  show  your  zeal  by  setting  fully  befcfre  me  the 
greatness  of  his  crime ;  if  my  heart  should  be  tempted 
ever  to  degrade  itself  so  far,  let  your  affection  then  show 
itself;  spare  me  not,  but  support  my  anger  as  is  fit. 

MAR.  Oh  !  do  not  fear !  leave  that  to  me ;  I  am  at 
least  as  angry  as  you;  I  would  rather  remain  a  maid  all  my 
life  than  that  my  fat  rascal  should  give  me  any  inclination 
for  him  again.  If  he  comes  .  .  . 

SCENE  V. — MARINETTE,  LUCILE,  ALBERT. 

ALB.  Go  in,  Lucile,  and  tell  the  tutor  to  come  to  me  ; 
I  wish  to  have  a  little  talk  with  him ;  and  as  he  is  the 
master  of  Ascanio,  find  out  what  is  the  cause  that  the 
latter  has  been  of  late  so  gloomy. 

• 

SCENE  VI. — ALBERT,  alone. 

Into  what  an  abyss  of  cares  and  perplexities  does  one 
unjust  action  precipitate  us.  For  a  long  time  I  have  suf- 
fered a  great  deal  because  I  was  too  avaricious,  and  passed 
off  a  stranger  for  my  dead  son.  When  I  consider  the 
mischief  which  followed  I  sincerely  wish  I  had  never 
thought  of  it.  Sometimes  I  dread  to  behold  my  family  in 
poverty  and  covered  with  shame,  when  the  deception  will 
be  found  out ;  at  other  times  I  fear  a  hundred  accidents 
that  may  happen  to  this  son  whom  it  concerns  me  so 
much  to  preserve.  If  any  business  calls  me  abroad,  I  am 
afraid  of  hearing,  on  my  return,  some  such  melancholy 
tidings  as  these  :  "  You  know,  I  suppose?  Have  they  not 
told  you  ?  Your  son  has  a  fever  ;  or  he  has  broken  his 
leg  or  his  arm."  In  short,  every  moment,  no  matter 
VOL.  i.  G 


98  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  n. 

what  I  do,   all   kinds  of  apprehensions   are   continually 
entering  into  my  head.     Ha  ! 

SCENE  VII. — ALBERT,  METAPHRASTUS. 

MET.   Mandatum  tuum  euro  diligenter? 

ALB.  Master,  I  want  to  ... 

MET.  Master  is  derived  from  magi's  ter  j  it  is  as  though 
you  say  "  thrice  greater." 

ALB.  May  I  die  if  I  knew  that ;  but,  never  mind,  be  it 
so.  Master,  then  .  .  . 

MET.   Proceed. 

ALB.  So  I  would,  but  do  not  proceed  to  interrupt  me 
thus.  Once  more,  then,  master,  for  the  third  time,  my 
son  causes  me  some  uneasiness.  You  know  that  I  love 
him,  and  that  I  always  brought  him  up  carefully. 

MET.  It  is  true  :  filio  non  potest  prceferri  nisi  filius. 

ALB.  Master,  I  do  not  think  this  jargon  at  all  necessary 
in  common  conversation.  I  believe  you  are  a  great  Latin 
scholar  and  an  eminent  doctor,  for  I  rely  on  those  who 
have  told  me  so ;  but  in  a  conversation  which  I  should  like 
to  have  with  you,  do  not  display  all  your  learning — do  not 
play  the  pedant,  and  utter  ever  so  many  words,  as  if  you 
were  holding  forth  in  a  pulpit.  My  father,  though  he 
was  a  very  clever  man,  never  taught  me  anything  but  my 
prayers  ;  and  though  I  have  said  them  daily  for  fifty  years, 
they  are  still  High-Dutch  to  me.  Therefore,  do  not  em- 
ploy your  prodigious  knowledge,  but  adapt  your  language 
to  my  weak  understanding. 

MET.  Be  it  so. 

ALB.  My  son  seems  to  be  afraid  of  matrimony  ;  when- 
ever I  propose  a  match  to  him,  he  seems  indifferent,  and 
draws  back. 

MET.  Perhaps  he  is  of  the  temper  of  Mark  Tully's 
brother,  whom  he  writes  about  to  Atticus.  This  is  what 
the  Greeks  call  athanaton  .  .  .  .  7 

ALB.  For  Heaven's  sake  !  you  ceaseless  teacher,  I  pray 
you  have  done  with  the  Greeks,  the  Albanians,  the  Scla- 

6  "  I  hasten  to  obey  your  order." 

6"  To  a  son  one  can  only  prefer  a  son."  An  allusion  to  an  article  of 
feudal  law. 

7  Immortal. 


SCENE  vn.J  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  yy 

vonians,  and  all  the  other  nations  you  have  mentioned  ; 
they  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  son. 

MET.  Well  then,  your  son  .    .    .  ? 

ALB.  I  do  not  know  whether  a  secret  love  does  not  burn 
within  him.  Something  disturbs  him,  or  I  am  much  de- 
ceived ;  for  I  saw  him  yesterday,  when  he  did  not  see  me, 
in  a  corner  of  the  wood,  where  no  person  ever  goes. 

MET.  In  a  recess  of  a  grove,  you  mean,  a  remote  spot, 
in  Latin  seccssus.  Virgil  says,  est  in  sec  ess u  locus  .  .  .  8 

ALB.  How  could  Virgil  say  that,  since  I  am  certain  that 
there  was  not  a  soul  in  that  quiet  spot  except  us  two  ? 

MET.  I  quote  Virgil  as  a  famous  author,  who  employed 
a  more  correct  expression  than  the  word  you  used,  and 
not  as  a  witness  of  what  you  saw  yesterday. 

ALB  I  tell  you  I  do  not  need  a  more  correct  expression, 
an  author,  or  a  witness,  and  that  my  own  testimony  is  suf- 
ficient. 

MET.  However,  you  ought  to  choose  words  which  are 
used  by  the  best  authors ;  tu  vivendo  bonos,  scribendo  se- 
quare peritos?  as  the  saying  is. 

ALB.  Man  or  devil,  will  you  hear  me  without  disputing  ? 

MET.  That  is  Quintilian's  rule. 

ALB.  Hang  the  chatterbox  ! 

MET.  He  has  a  very  learned  sentence  upon  a  similar 
subject,  which,  I  am  sure,  you  will  be  very  glad  to  hear. 

ALB.  I  will  be  the  devil  to  carry  you  off,  you  wretch. 
Oh  !  I  am  very  much  tempted  to  apply  something  to  those 
chops. 

MET.  Sir,  what  is  the  reason  that  you  fly  in  such  a  pas- 
sion !  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ? 

ALB.  I  have  told  you  twenty  times  ;  I  wish  you  to  listen 
to  me  when  I  speak. 

MET.  Oh !  undoubtedly,  you  shall  be  satisfied  if  that 
is  all.  I  am  silent. 

ALB.  You  act  wisely. 

MET.  I  am  ready  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say. 

ALB.  So  much  the  better. 


8  There  is  a  remote  spot. 

9  "  Regulate  your  conduct  after  the  example  of  good  people  your  style 
after  good  authors." 


100  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  n. 

MET.   May  I  be  struck  dead  if  I  say  another  word  ! 
ALB.  Heaven  grant  you  that  favour. 
MET.  You  shall  not  accuse  me  henceforth  of  talkative- 
ness. 

ALB.  Be  it  so. 

MET.   Speak  whenever  you  please 

ALB.  I  am  going  to  do  so. 

MET.  And  do  not  be  afraid  of  my  interrupting  you. 

ALB.  That  is  enough. 

MET.  My  word  is  my  bond. 

ALB.  I  believe  so. 

MET.  I  have  promised  to  say  nothing. 

ALB.  That  is  sufficient. 

MET.   From  this  moment  I  am  dumb. 

ALB.  Very  well. 

MET.  Speak ;  go  on ;  I  will  give  you  a  hearing  at  least ; 
you  shall  not  complain  that  I  cannot  keep  silent ;  I  will 
not  so  much  as  open  my  mouth. 

ALB.  (Aside).  The  wretch  ! 

MET.  But  pray,  do  not  be  prolix.  I  have  listened 
already  a  long  time,  and  it  is  reasonable  that  I  should 
speak  in  my  turn. 

ALB.  Detestable  torturer ! 

MET.  Hey !  good  lack !  would  you  have  me  listen  to  you 
for  ever?  Let  us  share  the  talk,  at  least,  or  I  shall  be  gone. 

ALB.  My  patience  is  really  .    .    . 

MET.  What,  will  you  proceed?  You  have  not  done 
yet  ?  By  Jove,  I  am  stunned. 

ALB.  I  have  not  spoken  .    .    . 

MET.  Again  !  good  Heavens  !  what  exuberant  speechi- 
fying !  Can  nothing  be  done  to  stop  it  ? 

ALB.  I  am  mad  with  rage. 

MET.  You  are  talking  again  !  What  a  peculiar  way  of 
tormenting  people !  Let  me  say  a  few  words,  I  entreat 
you ;  a  fool  who  says  nothing  cannot  be  distinguished  from 
a  wise  man  who  holds  his  tongue. 

ALB.  Zounds  !  I  will  make  you  hold  yours.  (Exit. 

SCENE  VIII. — METAPHRASTUS,  alone. 

Hence  comes  very  properly  that  saying  of  a  philoso- 
pher, "  Speak,  that  I  may  know  thee."  Therefore,  if  the 


SCENE  ix.]  THE  LOVE-TIFF.  IOI 

liberty  of  speaking  is  taken  from  me,  I,  for  my  part,  would 
as  soon  be  divested  of  my  humanity,  and  exchange  my 
being  for  that  of  a  brute.  I  shall  have  a  headache  for  a 
week.  Oh  !  how  I  detest  these  eternal  talkers  !  But  if 
learned  men  are  not  listened  to,  if  their  mouths  are  for 
ever  to  be  stopped,  then  the  order  of  events  must  be 
changed  ;  the  hens  in  a  little  time  will  devour  the  fox  ; 
young  children  teach  old  men  ;  little  lambs  take  a  delight 
in  pursuing  the  wolf  ;  fools  make  laws  ;  women  go  to 
battle  ;  judges  be  tried  by  criminals  ;  and  masters  whipped 
by  pupils  ;  a  sick  man  prescribe  for  a  healthy  one  ;  a  timo- 
rous hare  .  .  . 


SCENE  IX.  —  ALBERT,  METAPHRASTUS. 

ings   a   dell  in  the   ears   of 

drives  him  off}. 
MET.  Mercy  on  me  !     Help  !  help  ! 


(Albert  rings   a   dell  in  the   ears   of  Metaphrastus,    and 
drives  him  o. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. — MASCARILLE,  alone. 

Heaven  sometimes  favours  a  bold  design  ;  we  must  get 
out  of  a  bad  business  as  well  as  we  can.  As  for  me,  after 
having  imprudently  talked  too  much,  the  quickest  remedy 
I  could  employ  was  to  go  on  in  the  same  way,  and  imme- 
diately to  tell  to  our  old  master  the  whole  intrigue.  His 
son  is  a  giddy-brained  mortal,  who  worries  me ;  but  if  the 
other  tells  what  I  have  discovered  to  him,  then  I  had  bet- 
ter take  care,  for  I  shall  get  a  beating.  However,  before 
his  fury  can  be  kindled,  some  lucky  thing  may  happen  to 
us,  and  the  two  old  men  may  arrange  the  business  between 
themselves.  That  is  what  I  am  going  to  attempt ;  with- 
out losing  a  moment  I  must,  by  my  master's  order,  go 
and  see  Albert.  (Knocks  at  Alberf  s  door). 

SCENE  II. — ALBERT,  MASCARILLE. 

ALB.  Who  knocks? 

MASC.  A  friend. 

ALB.  What  brings  you  hither,  Mascarille? 

MASC.  I  come,  sir,  to  wish  you  good-morning. 


102  THE   LOVE-TIFF. 


!  ACT  III. 


ALB.  Hah!  you  really  take  a  great  deal  of  pains.  Good- 
morning,  then,  with  all  my  heart.  (He  goes  in). 

MASC.  The  answer  is  short  and  sweet.  What  a  blunt 
old  fellow  he  is.  (Knocks). 

ALB.  What,  do  you  knock  again  ? 

MASC.  You  have  not  heard  me,  sir. 

ALB.  Did  you  not  wish  me  good-morning  ? 

MASC.  I  did. 

ALB.  Well,  then,  good  morning  I  say. 

(Is  going ;  Mascarille  stops  him. 

MASC.  But  I  likewise  come  to  pay  Mr.  Polydore's  com- 
pliments to  you. 

ALB.  Oh !  that  is  another  thing.  Has  your  master 
ordered  you  to  give  his  compliments  to  me  ? 

MASC.  Yes. 

ALB.  I  am  obliged  to  him  ;  you  may  go ;  tell  him  I  wish 
him  all  kind  of  happiness.  (Exit). 

MASC.  This  man  is  an  enemy  to  all  ceremony.  (^Knocks). 
I  have  not  finished,  sir,  giving  you  his  whole  message ;  he 
has  a  favour  to  request  of  you. 

ALB.  Well,  whenever  he  pleases,  I  am  at  his  service. 

MASC.  (Stopping  him).  Stay,  and  allow  me  to  finish  in 
two  words.  He  desires  to  have  a  few  minutes'  conversa- 
tion with  you  about  an  important  affair,  and  he  will  come 
hither. 

ALB.  Hey !  what  affair  can  that  be  which  makes  him 
wish  to  have  some  conversation  with  me  ? 

MASC.  A  great  secret,  I  tell  you,  which  he  has  but  just 
discovered,  and  which,  no  doubt,  greatly  concerns  you 
both.  And  now  I  have  delivered  my  message. 

SCENE  III. — ALBERT,  alone. 

ALB.  Righteous  Heavens !  how  I  tremble  !  Polydore 
and  I  have  had  little  acquaintance  together  ;  my  designs 
wiU  all  be  overthrown ;  this  secret  is,  no  doubt,  that  of 
which  I  dread  the  discovery.  They  have  bribed  somebody 
to  betray  me ;  so  there  is  a  stain  upon  my  honour  which 
can  never  be  wiped  off.  My  imposture  is  found  out.  Oh ! 
how  difficult  it  is  to  keep  the  truth  concealed  for  any  length 
of  time  !  How  much  better  would  it  have  been  for  me 
and  my  reputation  had  I  followed  the  dictates  of  a  well- 


SCENE  iv. J  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  103 

founded  apprehension  !  Many  times  and  oft  have  I  been 
tempted  to  give  up  to  Polydore  the  wealth  I  withhold 
from  him,  in  order  to  prevent  the  outcry  that  will  be 
raised  against  me  when  everything  shall  be  known,  and  so 
get  the  whole  business  quietly  settled.  But,  alas  !  it  is 
now  too  late  ;  the  opportunity  is  gone ;  and  this  wealth, 
which  wrongfully  came  into  my  family,  will  be  lost  to 
them,  and  sweep  away  the  greatest  part  of  my  own  pro- 
perty with  it. 

SCENE  IV. — ALBERT,  POLYDORE. 

POL.  (Not seeing  Albert}.  To  be  married  in  this  fashion, 
and  no  one  knowing  anything  about  it  !  I  hope  it  may 
all  end  well !  I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  it;  I  much 
fear  the  great  wealth  and  just  anger  of  the  father.  But  I 
see  him  alone. 

ALB.  Oh,  Heavens  !  yonder  comes  Polydore. 

POL.   I  tremble  to  accost  him. 

ALB.  Fear  keeps  me  back. 

POL.   How  shall  I  begin  ? 

ALB.  What  shall  I  say  ? 

POL.  He  is  in  a  great  passion. 

ALB.  He  changes  colour. 

POL.  I  see,  Signer  Albert,  by  your  looks,  that  you 
know  already  what  brings  me  hither. 

ALB.  Alas !  yes. 

POL.  The  news,  indeed,  may  well  surprise  you,  and  I 
could  scarcely  believe  what  I  was  told  just  now. 

ALB.  I  ought  to  blush  with  shame  and  confusion. 

POL.  I  think  such  an  action  deserves  great  blame,  and 
do  not  pretend  to  excuse  the  guilty. 

ALB.  Heaven  is  merciful  to  miserable  sinners. 

POL.  You  should  bear  this  in  mind. 

ALB.  A  man  ought  to  behave  as  a  Christian. 

POL.  That  is  quite  right. 

ALB.  Have  mercy ;  for  Heaven's  sake,  have  mercy, 
Signer  Polydore. 

POL.  It  is  for  me  to  implore  it  of  you. 

ALB.  Grant  me  mercy;  I  ask  it  on  my  bended  knees. 

POL.  I  ought  to  be  in  that  attitude  rather  than  you.10 

10  The  two  old  men  are  kneeling  opposite  to  one  another. 


104  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  in. 

ALB.   Pity  my  misfortune. 

POL.  After  such  an  outrage  I  am  the  postulant. 

ALB.  Your  goodness  is  heart-rending. 

POL.  You  abash  me  with  so  much  humility. 

ALB.  Once  more,  pardon. 

POL.  Alas  !  I  crave  it  of  you. 

ALB.   I  am  extremely  sorry  for  this  business. 

POL.  And  I  feel  it  greatly. 

ALB.  I  venture  to  entreat  you  not  to  make  it  public. 

POL.  Alas,  Signer  Albert,  I  desire  the  very  same. 

ALB.  Let  us  preserve  my  honour. 

POL.  With  all  my  heart. 

ALB.  As  for  money,  you  shall  determine  how  much  you 
require. 

POL.  I  desire  no  more  than  you  are  willing  to  give  ; 
you  shall  be  the  master  in  all  these  things,  I  shall  be  but 
too  happy  if  you  are  so. 

ALB.  Ha !  what  a  God-like  man  !  how  very  kind  he  is ! 

POL.  How  very  kind  you  are  yourself,  and  that  after 
such  a  misfortune. 

ALB.  May  you  be  prosperous  in  all  things  ! 

POL.  May  Heaven  preserve  you ! 

ALB.  Let  us  embrace  like  brothers. 

POL.  With  all  my  heart !  I  am  overjoyed  that  every- 
thing has  ended  so  happily, 

ALB.  I  thank  Heaven  for  it. 

POL.  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  you ;  I  was  afraid  you 
would  resent  that  Lucile  has  committed  a  fault  with  my 
son ;  and  as  you  are  powerful,  have  wealth  and  friends.  . . 

ALB.  Hey  !  what  do  you  say  of  faults  and  Lucile  ? 

POL.  Enough,  let  us  not  enter  into  a  useless  conversa- 
tion. I  own  my  son  is  greatly  to  blame ;  nay,  if  that 
will  satisfy  you,  I  will  admit  that  he  alone  is  at  fault ;  that 
your  daughter  was  too  virtuous,  and  would  never  have 
taken  a  step  so  derogatory  to  honour,  had  she  not  been 
prevailed  upon  by  a  wicked  seducer  ;  that  the  wretch  has 
betrayed  her  innocent  modesty,  and  thus  frustrated  all 
your  expectations.  But  since  the  thing  is  done,  and  my 
prayers  have  been  granted,  since  we  are  both  at  peace  and 
amity,  let  it  be  buried  in  oblivion,  and  repair  the  offence 
by  the  ceremony  of  a  happy  alliance. 


SCBNKVI.]  THE    LOVE-TIFF.  105 

ALB.  (Aside}.  Oh,  Heavens  !  what  a  mistake  I  have 
been  under  !  What  do  I  hear  !  I  get  from  one  difficulty 
into  another  as  great.  I  do  not  know  what  to  answer 
amidst  these  different  emotions ;  if  I  say  one  word,  I  am 
afraid  of  betraying  myself. 

POL.   What  are  you  thinking  of,  Signer  Albert  ? 

ALB.  Of  nothing.  Let  us  put  off  our  conversation  for 
a  while,  I  pray  you.  I  have  become  suddenly  very  un- 
well, and  am  obliged  to  leave  you. 

SCENE  V. — POLYDORE,  alone. 

I  can  look  into  his  soul  and  discover  what  disturbs 
him  ;  though  he  listened  to  reason  at  first,  yet  his  anger 
is  not  quite  appeased.  Now  and  then  the  remembrance 
of  the  offence  flashes  upon  him  ;  he  endeavours  to  hide 
his  emotion  by  leaving  me  alone.  I  feel  for  him,  and  his 
grief  touches  me.  It  will  require  some  time  before  he  re- 
gains his  composure,  for  if  sorrow  is  suppressed  too  much, 
it  easily  becomes  worse.  O  !  here  comes  my  foolish  boy, 
the  cause  of  all  this  confusion. 

SCENE  VI. — POLYDORE,  VALERE. 

POL.  So,  my  fine  fellow,  shall  your  nice  goings-on  dis- 
turb your  poor  old  father  every  moment  ?  You  perform 
something  new  every  day,  and  we  never  hear  of  anything 
else. 

VAL.  What  am  I  doing  every  day  that  is  so  very  crimi- 
nal ?  And  how  have  I  deserved  so  greatly  a  father's 
wrath  ? 

POL.  I  am  a  strange  man,  and  very  peculiar  to  accuse 
so  good  and  discreet  a  son.  He  lives  like  a  saint,  and  is 
at  prayers  and  in  the  house  from  morning  to  evening.  It 
is  a  great  untruth  to  say  that  he  perverts  the  order  of 
nature,  and  turns  day  into  night  !  It  is  a  horrible  false- 
hood to  state  that  upon  several  occasions  he  has  shown  no 
consideration  for  father  or  kindred  ;  that  very  lately  he 
married  secretly  the  daughter  of  Albert,  regardless  of  the 
great  consequences  that  were  sure  to  follow ;  they  mistake 
him  for  some  other  !  The  poor  innocent  creature  does 
not  even  know  what  I  mean  !  Oh,  you  villain  !  whom 
Heaven  has  sent  me  as  a  punishment  for  my  sins,  will  you 


106  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  in. 

always  do  as  you  like,  and  shall  I  never  see  you  act  dis- 
creetly as  long  as  I  live  ?  (Exit. 
VAL.  (Alone,  musing).  Whence  comes  this  blow  ?  I 
am  perplexed,  and  can  find  none  to  think  of  but  Mas- 
carille ,  he  will  never  confess  it  to  me  ;  I  must  be  cun- 
ning, and  curb  my  well-founded  anger  a  little. 

SCENE  VII. — VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

VAL.  Mascarille,  my  father  whom  I  just  saw  knows  our 
whole  secret. 

MASC.  Does  he  know  it? 

VAL.  Yes. 

MASC.  How  the  deuce  could  he  know  it  ? 

VAL.  I  do  not  know  whom  to  suspect ;  but  the  result 
has  been  so  successful,  that  I  have  all  the  reason  in  the 
world  to  be  delighted.  He  has  not  said  one  cross  word 
about  it ;  he  excuses  my  fault,  and  approves  of  my  love ; 
I  would  fain  know  who  could  have  made  him  so  tractable. 
I  cannot  express  to  you  the  satisfaction  it  gives  me. 

MASC.  And  what  would  you  say,  sir,  if  it  was  I  who  had 
procured  you  this  piece  of  good  luck  ? 

VAL.  Indeed  !  you  want  to  deceive  me. 

MASC.  It  is  I,  I  tell  you,  who  told  it  to  your  father,  and 
produced  this  happy  result  for  you. 

VAL.  Really,  without  jesting  ? 

MASC.  The  devil  take  me  if  I  jest,  and  if  it  is  not  as  I 
tell  you. 

VAL.  (Drawing  his  sword}.  And  may  he  take  me  if  I 
do  not  this  very  moment  reward  you  for  it. 

MASC.  Ha,  sir  !  what  now?     Don't  surprise  me. 

VAL.  Is  this  the  fidelity  you  promised  me  ?  If  I  had 
not  deceived  you,  you  would  never  have  owned  the  trick 
which  I  rightly  suspected  you  played  me.  You  rascal ! 
your  tongue,  too  ready  to  wag,  has  provoked  my  father's 
wrath  against  me,  and  utterly  ruined  me.  You  shall  die 
without  saying  another  word. 

MASC.  Gently ;  my  soul  is  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  die. 
I  entreat  you,  be  kind  enough  to  await  the  result  of  this 
affair.  I  had  very  good  reasons  for  revealing  a  marriage 
which  you  yourself  could  hardly  conceal.  It  was  a  master- 
piece of  policy ;  you  will  not  find  your  rage  justified  by 


SCENE  vin.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  107 

the  issue.  Why  should  you  get  angry  if,  through  me,  you 
get  all  you  desire,  and  are  freed  from  the  constraint  you 
at  present  lie  under  ? 

VAL.  And  what  if  all  this  talk  is  nothing  but  moon- 
shine ? 

MASC.  Why,  then,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  kill  me ; 
but  my  schemes  may  perchance  succeed.  Heaven  will 
assist  his  own  servants  ;  you  will  be  satisfied  in  the  end, 
and  thank  me  for  my  extraordinary  management. 

VAL.  Well,  we  shall  see.     But  Lucile  .    .    . 

MASC.  Hold,  here  comes  her  father. 

SCENE  VIII. — ALBERT,  VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

ALB.  {Not  seeing  Valere).  The  more  I  recover  from 
the  confusion  into  which  I  fell  at  first,  the  more  I  am 
astonished  at  the  strange  things  Polydore  told  me,  and 
which  my  fear  made  me  interpret  in  so  different  a  manner 
to  what  he  intended.  Lucile  maintains  that  it  is  all  non- 
sense, and  spoke  to  me  in  such  a  manner  as  leaves  no 
room  for  suspicion  .  .  .  Ha  !  sir,  it  is  you  whose 
unheard-of  impudence  sports  with  my  honour,  and  in- 
vents this  base  story  ? 

MASC.  Pray,  Signor  Albert,  use  milder  terms,  and  do 
not  be  so  angry  with  your  son-in-law. 

ALB.  How  !  son-in-law,  rascal  ?  You  look  as  if  you 
were  the  main-spring  of  this  intrigue,  and  the  originator 
of  it. 

MASC.  Really  I  see  no  reason  for  you  to  fly  in  such  a 
passion. 

ALB.  Pray,  do  you  think  it  right  to  take  away  the 
character  of  my  daughter,  and  bring  such  a  scandal  upon 
a  whole  family  ? 

MASC.  He  is  ready  to  do  all  you  wish. 

ALB.  I  only  want  him  to  tell  the  truth.  If  he  had  any 
inclination  for  Lucile,  he  should  have  courted  her  in  an 
honourable  and  open  way ;  he  should  have  acted  as  he 
ought,  and  asked  her  father's  leave ;  and  not  have  had 
recourse  to  this  cowardly  contrivance,  which  offends  mo- 
desty so  much. 

MASC.  What !  Lucile  is  not  secretly  engaged  to  my 
master  ? 


108  THE   LOVE-TIFF. 


[ACT  in. 


ALB.  No,  rascal,  nor  ever  will  be. 

MASC.  Not  quite  so  fast  !  If  the  thing  is  already  done, 
will  you  give  your  consent  to  ratify  that  secret  engage- 
ment ? 

ALB.  And  if  it  is  certain  that  it  is  not  so,  will  you  have 
your  bones  broken  ? 

VAL.  It  is  easy,  sir,  to  prove  to  you  that  he  speaks  the 
truth. 

ALB.  Good !  there  is  the  other  !  Like  master,  like 
man.  O  !  what  impudent  liars  ! 

MASC.  Upon  the  word  of  a  man  of  honour,  it  is  as 
I  say. 

VAL.  Why  should  we  deceive  you  ? 

ALB.  (Aside)  They  are  two  sharpers  that  know  how  to 
play  into  each  other's  hands. 

MASC.  But  let  us  come  to  the  proof,  and  without  quar- 
relling. Send  for  Lucile,  and  let  her  speak  for  herself. 

ALB.  And  what  if  she  should  prove  you  a  liar  ? 

MASC  She  will  not  contradict  us,  sir ;  of  that  I  am 
certain.  Promise  to  give  your  consent  to  their  engage- 
ment ;  and  I  will  suffer  the  severest  punishment  if,  with 
her  own  mouth,  she  does  not  confess  to  you  that  she  is 
engaged  to  Valere,  and  shares  his  passion. 

ALB.  We  shall  see  this  presently. 

(He  knocks  at  his  door). 

MASC.  (To  Valere}.    Courage,  Sir  ;  all  will  end  well. 

ALB.  Ho  !  Lucile,  one  word  with  you. 

VAL.   (To  Mascarille}.    I  fear.   .  . 

MASC.  Fear  nothing. 

SCENE  IX. — VALERE,  ALBERT,  LUCILE,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  Signer  Albert,  at  least  be  silent.  At  length, 
madam,  everything  conspires  to  make  your  happiness  com- 
plete. Your  father,  who  is  informed  of  your  love,  leaves 
you  your  husband  and  gives  his  permission  to  your  union, 
provided  that,  banishing  all  frivolous  fears,  a  few  words 
from  your  own  mouth  corroborate  what  we  have  told  him. 

Luc.  What  nonsense  does  this  impudent  scoundrel 
tell  me? 

MASC.  That  is  all  right.  I  am  already  honoured  with  a 
fine  title. 


SCENE  ix. ]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  109 

Luc.  Pray,  sir,  who  has  invented  this  nice  story  which 
has  been  spread  about  to-day? 

VAL.  Pardon  me,  charming  creature.  My  servant  has 
been  babbling ;  our  marriage  is  discovered,  without  my 
consent. 

Luc.  Our  marriage  ? 

VAL.  Everything  is  known,  adorable  Lucile  ;  it  is  vain 
to  dissemble. 

Luc.  What !  the  ardour  of  my  passion  has  made  you 
my  husband  ? 

VAL.  It  is  a  happiness  which  causes  a  great  many  heart- 
burnings. But  I  impute  the  successful  result  of  my  court- 
ship less  to  your  great  passion  for  me  than  to  your  kindness 
of  heart.  I  know  you  have  cause  to  be  offended,  that  it 
was  the  secret  which  you  would  fain  have  concealed.  I 
myself  have  put  a  restraint  on  my  ardour,  so  that  I  might 
not  violate  your  express  commands ;  but  .  .  . 

MASC.  Yes,  it  was  I  who  told  it.  What  great  harm  is 
done  ? 

Luc.  Was  there  ever  a  falsehood  like  this  ?  Dare  you 
mention  this  in  my  very  presence,  and  hope  to  obtain  my 
hand  by  this  fine  contrivance  ?  What  a  wretched  lover 
you  are — you,  whose  gallant  passion  would  wound  my 
honour,  because  it  could  not  gain  my  heart ;  who  wish  to 
frighten  my  father  by  a  foolish  story,  so  that  you  might 
obtain  my  hand  as  a  reward  for  having  vilified  me. 
Though  everything  were  favourable  to  your  love — my 
father,  fate,  and  my  own  inclination — yet  my  well-founded 
resentment  would  struggle  against  my  own  inclination, 
fate,  and  my  father,  and  even  lose  life  rather  than  be 
united  to  one  who  thought  to  obtain  my  hand  in  this 
manner.  Begone  !  If  my  sex  could  with  decency  be 
provoked  to  any  outburst  of  rage,  I  would  let  you  know 
what  it  was  to  treat  me  thus. 

VAL.  (To Mascarille).  It  is  all  over  with  us;  her  anger 
cannot  be  appeased. 

MASC.  Let  me  speak  to  her.  Prithee,  madam,  what  is 
the  good  of  all  these  excuses  ?  What  are  you  thinking  of? 
And  what  strange  whim  makes  you  thus  oppose  your  own 
happiness  ?  If  your  father  were  a  harsh  parent,  the  case 
would  be  different,  but  he  listens  to  reason  ;  and  he  him- 


110  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  m. 

self  has  assured  me  that  if  you  would  but  confess  the  truth, 
his  affection  would  grant  you  everything.  I  believe  you 
are  a  little  ashamed  frankly  to  acknowledge  that  you  have 
yielded  to  love ;  but  if  you  have  lost  a  trifling  amount  of 
freedom,  everything  will  be  set  to  rights  again  by  a  good 
marriage.  Your  great  love  for  Valere  may  be  blamed  a 
little,  but  the  mischief  is  not  so  great  as  if  you  had  mur- 
dered a  man.  We  all  know  that  flesh  is  frail,  and  that  a 
maid  is  neither  stock  nor  stone.  You  were  not  the  first, 
that  is  certain  ;  and  you  will  not  be  the  last,  I  dare  say. 

Luc.  What !  can  you  listen  to  this  shameless  talk,  and 
make  no  reply  to  these  indignities  ? 

ALB.  What  would  you  have  me  say  ?  This  affair  puts 
me  quite  beside  myself. 

MASC.  Upon  my  word,  madam,  you  ought  to  have  con- 
fessed all  before  now. 

Luc.  What  ought  I  to  have  confessed  ? 

MASC.  What  ?  Why,  what  has  passed  between  my  mas- 
ter and  you.  A  fine  joke,  indeed  ! 

Luc.  Why,  what  has  passed  between  your  master  and 
me,  impudent  wretch  ? 

MASC.  You  ought,  I  think,  to  know  that  better  than  I ; 
you  passed  that  night  too  agreeably,  to  make  us  believe 
you  could  forget  it  so  soon. 

Luc.  Father,  we  have  too  long  borne  with  the  insolence 
of  an  impudent  lackey.  (Gives  him  a  box  on  the  ear). 

SCENE  X. — ALBERT,  VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  I  think  she  gave  me  a  box  on  the  ear. 

ALB.  Begone  !  rascal,  villain  !  Her  father  approves  the 
way  in  which  she  has  made  her  hand  felt  upon  your  cheek. 

MASC.  May  be  so  ;  yet  may  the  devil  take  me  if  I  said 
anything  but  what  was  true  ! 

ALB.  And  may  I  lose  an  ear  if  you  carry  on  this  impu- 
dence any  further ! 

MASC.  Shall  I  send  for  two  witnesses  to  testify  to  the 
truth  of  my  statements  ? 

ALB.  Shall  I  send  for  two  of  my  servants  to  give  you  a 
3ound  thrashing  ? 

MASC.  Their  testimony  will  corroborate  mine. 


SCENE  xi.J  THE    LOVE-TIFF.  1 1 1 

ALB.  Their  arms  may  make  up  for  my  want  of 
strength. 

MASC.  I  tell  you,  Lucile  behaves  thus  because  she  is 
ashamed. 

ALB.  I  tell  you,  you  shall  be  answerable  for  all  this. 

MASC.  Do  you  know  Ormin,  that  stout  and  clever 
notary  ? 

ALB.  Do  you  know  Grimpant,  the  city  executioner  ? 

MASC.  And  Simon,  the  tailor,  who  used  formerly  to 
work  for  all  the  people  of  fashion  ? 

ALB.  And  the  gibbet  set  up  in  the  middle  of  the  mar- 
ket-place ? 

MASC.  You  shall  see  they  will  confirm  the  truth  of  this 
marriage. 

ALB.  You  shall  see  they  will  make  an  end  of  you. 

MASC.  They  were  the  witnesses  chosen  by  them. 

ALB.  They  shall  shortly  revenge  me  on  you. 

MASC.  I  myself  saw  them  at  the  altar. 

ALB.  And  I  myself  shall  see  you  with  a  halter. 

MASC.  By  the  same  token,  your  daughter  had  a  black 
veil  on. 

ALB.  By  the  same  token,  your  face  foretells  your  doom. 

MASC.  What  an  obstinate  old  man. 

ALB.  What  a  cursed  rascal  !  You  may  thank  my  ad- 
vanced years,  which  prevent  me  from  punishing  your  in- 
sulting remarks  upon  the  spot :  but  I  promise  you,  you 
shall  be  paid  with  full  interest. 

SCENE  XI. — VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

VAL.  Well,  where  is  now  that  fine  result  you  were  to 
produce  .  .  . ? 

MASC.  I  understand  what  you  mean.  Everything  goes 
against  me :  I  see  cudgels  and  gibbets  preparing  for  me 
on  every  side.  Therefore,  so  that  I  may  be  at  rest  amidst 
this  chaos,  I  shall  go  and  throw  myself  headlong  from  a 
rock,  if,  in  my  present  despair,  I  can  find  one  high 
enough  to  please  me.  Farewell,  sir. 

VAL.  No,  no ;  in  vain  you  wish  to  fly.  If  you  die,  I 
expect  it  to  be  in  my  presence. 

MASC.  I  cannot  die  if  anybody  is  looking  on  :  it  would 
only  delay  my  end. 


112  THE  LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  iv. 

VAL.  Follow  me  traitor  ;  follow  me.  My  maddened 
love  will  soon  show  whether  this  is  a  jesting  matter  or  not. 

MASC.  {Alone').  Unhappy  Mascarille,  to  what  misfor- 
tunes are  you  condemned  to-day  for  another's  sin  ! 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — ASCANIO,  FROSINE. 

FROS.  What  has  happened  is  very  annoying. 

Asc.  My  dear  Frosine,  fate  has  irrevocably  decreed  my 
ruin.  Now  the  affair  has  gone  so  far,  it  will  never  stop 
there,  but  will  go  on ;  Lucile  and  Valere,  surprised  at 
such  a  strange  mystery,  will,  one  day,  try  to  find  their 
way  amidst  this  darkness,  and  thus  all  my  plans  will  mis- 
carry. For,  whether  Albert  is  acquainted  with  the  decep- 
tion, or  whether  he  himself  is  deceived,  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  the  world,  if  ever  it  happens  that  my  family  is  dis- 
covered, and  all  the  wealth  he  has  wrongfully  acquired 
passes  into  the  hands  of  others,  judge  if  he  will  then  en- 
dure my  presence ;  for,  not  having  any  interest  more  in 
the  matter,  he  will  abandon  me,  and  his  affection  for  me 
will  be  at  an  end.  Whatever,  then,  my  lover  may  think 
of  my  deception,  will  he  acknowledge  as  his  wife  a  girl 
without  either  fortune  or  family  ? 

FROS.  I  think  you  reason  rightly ;  but  these  reflections 
should  have  come  sooner.  What  has  prevented  you  from 
seeing  all  this  before?  there  was  no  need  to  be  a  witch 
to  foresee,  as  soon  as  you  fell  in  love  with  Valere,  all 
that  your  genius  never  found  out  until  to-day.  It  is  the 
natural  consequence  of  what  you  have  done ;  as  soon  as  I 
was  made  acquainted  with  it  I  never  imagined  it  would 
end  otherwise. 

Asc.  But  what  must  I  do  ?  There  never  was  such  a  mis- 
fortune as  mine.  Put  yourself  in  my  place,  and  give  me 
advice. 

FROS.  If  I  put  myself  in  your  place,  you  will  have  to 
give  me  advice  upon  this  ill-success ;  for  I  am  you,  and 
you  are  I.  Counsel  me,  Frosine,  in  the  condition  I  am 
in.  Where  can  we  find  a  remedy  ?  Tell  me,  I  beg  of  you. 

Asc.  Alas  !  do  not  make  fun  of  me.     You  show  but 


SCENE  ii.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  113 

little  sympathy  with  my  bitter  grief,  if  you  laugh  in  the 
midst  of  my  distress. 

FROS.  Really,  Ascanio,  I  pity  your  distress,  and  would 
do  my  utmost  to  help  you.  But  what  can  I  do,  after  all  ? 
I  see  very  little  likelihood  of  arranging  this  affair  so  as  to 
satisfy  your  love. 

Asc.   If  no  assistance  can  be  had,  I  must  die. 

FROS.  Die  !  Come,  come ;  it  is  always  time  enough 
for  that.  Death  is  a  remedy  ever  at  hand  ;  we  ought  to 
make  use  of  it  as  late  as  possible. 

Asc.  No,  no,  Frosine.  If  you  and  your  invaluable 
counsels  do  not  guide  me  amidst  all  these  breakers,  I 
abandon  myself  wholly  to  despair. 

FROS.  Do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking  about  ?  I 
must  go  and  see  the  .  .  .  ."  But  here  comes  Eraste  ;  he 
may  interrupt  us.  We  will  talk  this  matter  over  as  we  go 
along.  Come,  let  us  retire. 

SCENE  II. — ERASTE,  GROS-RENE. 

ERAS.  You  have  failed  again  ? 

GR.-RE.  Never  was  an  ambassador  less  listened  to.  No 
sooner  had  I  told  her  that  you  desired  to  have  a  moment's 
conversation  with  her,  than,  drawing  herself  up,  she  an- 
swered haughtily,  "  Go,  go,  I  value  your  master  just  as 
much  as  I  do  you ;  tell  him  he  may  go  about  his  business  ; " 
and  after  this  fine  speech  she  turned  her  head  away 
from  me  and  walked  off.  Marinette,  too,  imitating  her 
mistress,  said,  with  a  disdainful  sneer,  "  Begone,  you  low 
fellow, ' ' "  and  then  left  me ;  so  that  your  fortune  and 
mine  are  very  much  alike. 

ERAS.  What  an  ungrateful  creature,  to  receive  with  so 
much  haughtiness  the  quick  return  of  a  heart  justly  in- 

11  Frosine  means  by  "  the    .     .     .     ,    "  the  woman  who  knows  the  se- 
cret of  all  this  intrigue,  and  who  is  supposed  to  be  the  mother  of  Ascanio, 
This  is  explained  later  on,  in  Act  V.,  Scene  4,  page  125. 

12  In  the  original  it  is  beau  valet  de  carreau.     Littre\   in  his    '' Diction- 
naire  de  la  langue  francaise,"  says  that  this  word  which  means  literally 
"  knave  of  diamonds,  was  considered  an  insult,  because  in  the  old  packs 
of  cards  of  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  that  knave  was  called 
valet  de  cfiasse,  hunting  servant,  a  rather   menial   situation  ;   while  the 
knave  of  spades,  valet  de  pique,  was  called  valet  de  noblesse,  nobleman's 
servant :  the  knave  of  hearts,  valet  de  cctur,  valet  de  cour,  court  servant ; 
and  the  knave  of  clubs,  valet  de  trefle,  valet  de  pied,  foot-servant. 

VOL.  I.  H 


114  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  iv 

censed.  Is  the  first  outburst  of  a  passion,  which  with  so 
much  reason  thought  itself  deceived,  unworthy  of  excuse? 
Could  I,  when  burning  with  love,  remain  insensible,  in 
that  fatal  moment,  to  the  happiness  of  a  rival  ?  Would 
any  other  not  have  acted  in  the  same  way  as  I  did,  or 
been  less  amazed  at  so  much  boldness?  Was  I  not  quick 
in  abandoning  my  well-founded  suspicions?  I  did  not 
wait  till  she  swore  they  were  false.  When  no  one  can  tell 
as  yet  what  to  think  of  it,  my  heart,  full  of  impatience, 
restores  Lucile  to  her  former  place,  and  seeks  to  find 
excuses  for  her.  Will  not  all  these  proofs  satisfy  her  of 
the  ardour  of  my  respectful  passion  ?  Instead  of  calming 
my  mind,  and  providing  me  with  arms  against  a  rival  who 
wishes  to  alarm  me,  this  ungrateful  woman  abandons  me 
to  all  the  tortures  of  jealousy,  and  refuses  to  receive  my 
messages  and  notes,  or  to  grant  me  an  interview.  Alas ! 
that  love  is  certainly  very  lukewarm  which  can  be  extin- 
guished by  so  trifling  an  offence;  that  scornful  rigour, 
which  is  displayed  so  readily,  sufficiently  shows  to  me  the 
depth  of  her  affection.  What  value  ought  I  to  set  now 
upon  all  the  caprices  with  which  she  fanned  my  love  ? 
No !  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  any  longer  the  slave  of  one 
who  has  so  little  love  for  me;  since  she  does  not  mind 
whether  she  keeps  me  or  not,  I  will  do  the  same. 

GR.-RE.  And  so  will  I.  Let  us  both  be  angry,  and  put 
our  love  on  the  list  of  our  old  sins ;  we  must  teach  a 
lesson  to  that  wayward  sex,  and  make  them  feel  that  we 
possess  some  courage.  He  that  will  bear  their  contempt 
shall  have  enough  of  it.  If  we  had  sense  enough  not  to 
make  ourselves  too  cheap,  women  would  not  talk  so  big. 
Oh  !  how  insolent  they  are  through  our  weakness  !  May 
I  be  hanged  if  we  should  not  see  them  fall  upon  our  neck 
more  often  than  we  wished,  if  it  was  not  for  those  servili- 
ties with  which  most  men,  now-a-days,  continually  spoil 
them. 

ERAS.  As  for  me,  nothing  vexes  me  so  much  as  con- 
tempt; and  to  punish  her's  by  one  as  great,  I  am  resolved 
to  cherish  a  new  passion. 

GR.-RE.  So  will  I,  and  never  trouble  my  head  about 
women  again.  I  renounce  them  all,  and  believe  honestly 
you  could  not  do  better  than  to  act  like  me.  For,  master, 


SCENE  ii.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  115 

people  say  that  woman  is  an  animal  hard  to  be  known, 
and  naturally  very  prone  to  evil ;  and  as  an  animal  is 
always  an  animal,  and  will  never  be  anything  but  an 
animal,  though  it  lived  for  a  hundred  thousand  years,  so, 
without  contradiction,  a  woman  is  always  a  woman,  and 
will  never  be  anything  but  a  woman  as  long  as  the  world 
endures.13  Wherefore,  as  a  certain  Greek  author  says  :  a 
woman's  head  is  like  a  quicksand  ;  for  pray,  mark  well 
this  argument,  which  is  most  weighty :  As  the  head  is  the 
chief  of  the  body,  and  as  the  body  without  a  chief  is 
worse  than  a  beast,  unless  the  chief  has  a  good  under- 
standing with  the  body,  and  unless  everything  be  as  well 
regulated  as  if  it  were  measured  with  a  pair  of  compasses, 
we  see  certain  confusions  arrive  ;  the  animal  part  then  en- 
deavours to  get  the  better  of  the  rational,  and  we  see  one 
pull  to  the  right,  another  to  the  left ;  one  wants  something 
soft,  another  something  hard  ;  in  short,  everything  goes 
topsy  turvy.  This  is  to  show  that  here  below,  as  it  has 
been  explained  to  me,  a  woman's  head  is  like  a  weather- 
cock on  the  top  of  a  houje,  which  veers  about  at  the 
slightest  breeze  ;  that  is  why  cousin  Aristotle  often  com- 
pares her  to  the  sea ;  hence  people  say  that  nothing  in  the 
world  is  so  stable  as  the  waves.14  Now,  by  comparison — 
for  comparison  makes  us  comprehend  an  argument  dis- 
tinctly,— and  we  learned  men  love  a  comparison  better 
than  a  similitude, — by  comparison,  then,  if  you  please, 
master,  as  we  see  that  the  sea,  when  a  storm  rises,  begins 
to  rage,  the  wind  roars  and  destroys,  billows  dash  against 
billows  with  a  great  hullabaloo,  and  the  ship,  in  spite  of 
the  mariner,  goes  sometimes  down  to  the  cellar  and  some- 
times up  into  the  garret ;  so,  when  a  woman  gets  whims 
and  crotchets  into  her  head,  we  see  a  tempest  in  the  form 
of  a  violent  storm,  which  will  break  out  by  certain  .  .  . 


18  This  passage  is  paraphrased  from  Erasmus,  Colloquia  famlliaria  et- 
Encomium  Morite,  in  which,  after  having  called  a  woman  animal  stultvm 
atque  ineptum  verum  ridiculum,  et  suave.  Folly  adds,  Quemadmodum, 
juxta  Grcecorum  proverbium,  simia  semper  est  simia,  etiamsi  purpura 
vestiatur,  ita  mulier  semper  mulier  est,  hoc  est  stulta,  quamcunque  per- 
sonam  induxerit.  , 

14 Though  *'  stable'1  is  here  used,  it  is  only  employed  to  show  the  con- 
fusion of  Gros-Rene^s  ideas,  who,  of  course,  wishes  to  say  "  unstable.1' 


Il6  THE  LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  iv. 

words,  and  then  a  ...  certain  wind,  which  by  ...  cer- 
tain waves  in  ...  a  certain  manner,  like  a  sand-bank 
.  .  .  when  ...  In  short,  woman  is  worse  than  the  devil.15 

ERAS.  You  have  argued  that  very  well. 

GR.-RE.  Pretty  well,  thanks  to  Heaven  ;  but  I  see  them 
coming  this  way,  sir, — stand  firm. 

ERAS.  Never  fear. 

GR.-RE.  I  am  very  much  afraid  that  her  eyes  will  en- 
snare you  again. 

SCENE  III.  —  ERASTE,  LUCILE,  MARINETTE,  GROS-RENE. 

MAR.  He  is  not  gone  yet,  but  do  not  yield. 

Luc.  Do  not  imagine  I  am  so  weak. 

MAR.  He  comes  towards  us. 

ERAS.  No,  no,  madam,  do  not  think  that  I  have  come 
to  speak  to  you  again  of  my  passion  ;  it  is  all  over ;  I  am 
resolved  to  cure  myself.  I  know  how  little  share  I  have 
in  your  heart.  A  resentment  kept  up  so  long  for  a  slight 
offence  shows  me  your  indifference  but  too  plainly,  and  I 
must  tell  you  that  contempt,  above  all  things,  wounds  a 
lofty  mind.  I  confess  I  saw  in  you  charms  which  I  never 
found  in  any  other ;  the  delight  I  took  in  my  chains 
would  have  made  me  prefer  them  to  sceptres,  had  they 
been  offered  to  me.  Yes,  my  love  for  you  was  certainly 
very  great ;  my  life  was  centred  in  you  ;  I  will  even  own 
that,  though  I  am  insulted,  I  shall  still  perhaps  have  diffi- 
culty enough  to  free  myself.  Maybe,  notwithstanding  the 
cure  I  am  attempting,  my  heart  may  for  a  long  time  smart 
with  this  wound.  Freed  from  a  yoke  which  I  was  happy 
to  bend  under,  I  shall  take  a  resolution  never  to  love  again. 
But  no  matter,  since  your  hatred  repulses  a  heart  which 

15  This  long  speech  of  Gros-Ren6  ridicules  the  pedantic  arguments  of 
some  of  the  philosophers  of  the  time  of  Moliere.  It  also  attributes  to  the 
ancients  some  sayings  of  authors  of  the  day  ;  for  example,  the  comparison, 
from  a  Greek  author,  "  that  a  woman's  head  is  like  a  quicksand,"  is  from 
a  contemporary  ;  the  saying  from  Aristotle,  comparing  woman  to  the  sea, 
is  from  Malherbe.  Words  very  familiar  look  more  homely  when  em- 
ployed with  high-flown  language,  and  Gros- Rene's  speech  is  no  bad  ex- 
ample of  this,  whilst  at  the  same  time  it  becomes  more  muddled  the  longer 
it  goes  on.  There  exists  also  a  tradition  that  the  actor  who  performs  the 
part  of  Gros-Rene  should  in-order  to  shew  his  confusion,  when  he  says 
"goes  sometimes  down  the  cellar,"  point  to  his  head,  and  when  he  men- 
tions "  up  into  the  garret,"  point  to  his  feet.  • 


Act    I\r  Jc   3. 


SCENE  in,]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  I  17 

love  brings  back  to  you,  this  is  the  last  time  you  shall  ever 
be  troubled  by  the  man  you  so  much  despise. 

Luc.  You  might  have  made  the  favour  complete,  sir, 
and  spared  me  also  this  last  trouble. 

ERAS.  Very  well,  madam,  very  well,  you  shall  be  satis- 
fied. I  here  break  off  all  acquaintance  with  you,  and 
break  it  off  for  ever,  since  you  wish  it ;  may  I  lose  my  life 
if  ever  again  I  desire  to  converse  with  you  ! 

Luc.  So  much  the  better,  you  will  oblige  me. 

ERAS.  No,  no,  do  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall  break  my 
word  !  For,  though  my  heart  may  be  weak  enough  not  to 
be  able  to  efface  your  image,  be  assured  you  shall  never 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me  return. 

Luc.  You  may  save  yourself  the  trouble. 

ERAS.  I  would  pierce  my  breast  a  hundred  times  should 
I  ever  be  so  mean  as  to  see  you  again,  after  this  unworthy 
treatment. 

Luc.  Be  it  so ;  let  us  talk  no  more  about  it. 

ERAS.  Yes,  yes  ;  let  us  talk  no  more  about  it ;  and  to 
make  an  end  here  of  all  unnecessary  speeches,  and  to  give 
you  a  convincing  proof,  ungrateful  woman,  that  I  forever 
throw  off  your  chain,  I  will  keep  nothing  which  may  re- 
mind me  of  what  I  must  forget.  Here  is  your  portrait ; 
it  presents  to  the  eye  many  wonderful  and  dazzling 
charms,  but  underneath  them  lurk  as  many  monstrous 
faults  ;  it  is  a  delusion  which  I  restore  to  you. 

GR.-RE.  You  are  right. 

Luc.  And  I,  not  to  be  behind-hand  with  you  in  the 
idea  of  returning  everything,  restore  to  you  this  diamond 
which  you  obliged  me  to  accept. 

MAR.  Very  well. 

ERAS.  Here  is  likewise  a  bracelet  of  yours.16 

Luc.  And  this  agate  seal  is  yours. 

ERAS.  (Reads).  "  You  love  me  with  the  most  ardent 
passion,  Eraste,  and  wish  to  know  if  I  feel  the  same.  If 
I  do  not  love  Eraste  as  much,  at  least  I  am  pleased  that 

18  Formerly  lovers  used  to  wear  bracelets  generally  made  of  each  others 
hair,  which  no  doubt  were  hidden  from  the  common  view,  Shakespeare, 
in  his  Mid-rummer  Nighfs  Dream,  Act  i.,  Scene  i,  says,  "  Thou,  Lysan- 
der,  thou  hast  .  .  .  stol'n  th'  impression  of  her  fantasy  with  bracelets  of 
thy  hair." 


Il8  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  iv. 

Eraste  should  thus  love  me. — LUCILE."  You  assure  me 
by  this  letter  that  you  accept  my  love ;  it  is  a  falsehood 
which  I  punish  thus.  (Tears  the  letter). 

Luc.  (.Reading).  "I  do  not  know  what  may  be  the 
fate  of  my  ardent  love,  nor  how  long  I  shall  suffer ;  but 
this  I  know,  beauteous  charmer,  that  I  shall  always  love 
you. — ERASTE."  This  is  an  assurance  of  everlasting  love ; 
both  the  hand  and  the  letter  told  a  lie.  (Tears  the 
letter]. 

GR.-RE.  Go  on. 

ERAS.  (Showing  another  letter).  This  is  another  of  your 
letters  ;  it  shall  share  the  same  fate. 

MAR.  (To Lucile).     Be  firm. 

Luc.  (Tearing  another  letter].  I  should  be  sorry  to 
keep  back  one  of  them. 

GR.-RE.  (To  Eraste).  Do  not  let  her  have  the  last  word. 

MAR.  (To  Lucile).     Hold  out  bravely  to  the  end. 

Luc.  Well,  there  are  the  rest. 

ERAS.  Thank  Heaven,  that  is  all !  May  I  be  struck 
dead  if  I  do  not  keep  my  word  ! 

Luc.  May  it  confound  me  if  mine  be  vain. 

ERAS.  Farewell,  then. 

Luc.  Farewell,  then. 

MAR.  (To  Lucile).  Nothing  could  be  better. 

GR.-RE.  (To  Eraste).  You  triumph. 

MAR.  (To  Lucile).  Come,  let  us  leave  him. 

GR.-RE.  (7<?  Eraste}.  You  had  best  retire  after  this 
courageous  effort. 

MAR.  (To  Lucile).  What  are  you  waiting  for  ? 

GR.-RE.  ( To  Eraste).  What  more  do  you  want? 

ERAS.  Ah,  Lucile,  Lucile  !  you  will  be  sorry  to  lose  a 
heart  like  mine,  and  I  know  it. 

Luc.  Eraste,  Eraste,  I  may  easily  find  a  heart  like 
yours. 

ERAS.  No,  no,  search  everywhere ;  you  will  never  find 
one  so  passionately  fond  of  you,  I  assure  you.  I  do  not 
say  this  to  move  you  to  pity  ;  I  should  be  in  the  wrong 
now  to  wish  it ;  the  most  respectful  passion  could  not  bind 
you.  You  wanted  to  break  with  me  ;  I  must  think  of  you 
no  more.  But  whatever  any  one  may  pretend,  nobody  will 
ever  love  you  so  tenderly  as  I  have  done. 


SCENE  m.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  1 19 

Luc.  When  a  woman  is  really  beloved  she  is  treated 
differently,  and  is  not  condemned  so  rashly. 

ERAS.  Those  who  love  are  apt  to  be  jealous  on  the 
slightest  cause  of  suspicion,  but  they  can  never  wish  to  lose 
the  object  of  their  adoration,  and  that  you  have  done. 

Luc.   Pure  jealousy  is  more  respectful. 

ERAS.  An  offence  caused  by  love  is  looked  upon  with 
more  indulgence. 

Luc.  No,  Eraste,  your  flame  never  burnt  very  bright. 

ERAS.  No,  Lucile,  you  never  loved  me. 

Luc.   Oh  !  that  does  not  trouble  you  much,  I  suppose  ; 
perhaps  it  would  have  been  much  better  for  me  if  .    .    . 
But  no  more  of  this  idle  talk ;  I  do  not  say  what  I  think 
on  the  subject. 

ERAS.  Why? 

Luc.  Because,  as  we  are  to  break,  it  would  be  out  of 
place,  it  seems  to  me. 

ERAS.   Do  we  break,  then  ? 

Luc.  Yes,  to  be  sure ;  have  we  not  done  so  already? 

ERAS.  And  you  can  do  this  calmly  ? 

Luc.  Yes ;  so  can  you. 

ERAS.  I? 

Luc.  Undoubtedly.  It  is  weakness  to  let  people  see 
that  we  are  hurt  by  losing  them. 

ERAS.  But,  hard-hearted  woman,  it  is  you  who  would 
have  it  so. 

Luc.  I  ?  not  at  all ;  it  was  you  who  took  that  resolution. 

ERAS.  I  ?  I  thought  it  would  please  you. 

Luc.  Me ;  not  at  all ;  you  did  it  for  your  own  satis- 
faction. 

ERAS.  But  what  if  my  heart  should  wish  to  resume  its 
former  chain  ?  If,  though  very  sad,  it  should  sue  for 
pardon  .  .  .  ?" 

Luc.  No,  no ;  do  no  such  thing ;  my  weakness  is  too 
great.  I  am  afraid  I  might  too  quickly  grant  your  request. 

ERAS.  Oh !  you  cannot  grant  it,  nor  I  ask  for  it,  too 
soon,  after  what  I  have  just  heard.  Consent  to  love  me 

17  An  imitation  from  Horace,  book  iii.,  ode  ix.,  vers.  17  and  18. 
Quid?  si  prisca  redet  Venus 
Diductosque  jugo  cogit  aheneo  f 


120  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  iv. 

still,  madam ;  so  pure  a  flame  ought  to  burn  for  ever,  for 
your  own  sake.  I  ask  for  it,  pray  grant  rne  this  kind 
pardon. 

Luc.  Lead  me  home. 

SCENE  IV. — MARINETTE,  GRQS-RENE. 

MAR.   Oh  !  cowardly  creature, 

GR.-RE.  Oh!  weak  courage. 

MAR.  I  blush  with  indignation. 

GR.-RE.  I  am  swelling  with  rage;  do  not  imagine  I 
will  yield  thus. 

MAR.  And  do  not  think  to  find  such  a  dupe  in  me. 

GR.-RE.  Come  on,  come  on;  you  shall  soon  see  what 
my  wrath  is  capable  of  doing. 

MAR.  I  am  not  the  person  you  take  me  for ;  you  have 
not  my  silly  mistress  to  deal  with.  It  is  enough  to  look 
at  that  fine  phiz  to  be  smitten  with  the  man  himself! 
Should  I  fall  in  love  with  your  beastly  face  ?  Should  I 
hunt  after  you  ?  Upon  my  word,  girls  like  us  are  not  for 
the  like  of  you. 

GR.  -RE.  Ay !  and  you  address  me  in  such  a  fashion  ? 
Here,  here,  without  any  further  compliments,  there  is  your 
bow  of  tawdry  lace,  and  your  narrow  ribbon ;  it  shall  not 
have  the  honour  of  being  on  my  ear  any  more. 

MAR.  And  to  show  you  how  I  despise  you,  here,  take 
back  your  half  hundred  of  Paris  pins,  which  you  gave  me 
yesterday  with  so  much  bragging. 

GR.-RE.  Take  back  your  knife  too ;  a  thing  most  rich 
and  rare ;  it  cost  you  about  twopence  when  you  made  me 
a  present  of  it. 

MAR.  Take  back  your  scissors  with  the  pinchbeck  chain. 

GR.-RE.  I  forgot  the  piece  of  cheese  you  gave  me  the 
day  before  yesterday— here  it  is;  I  wish  I  could  bring 
back  the  broth  you  made  me  eat,  so  that  I  might  have 
nothing  belonging  to  you. 

MAR.  I  have  none  of  your  letters  about  me  now,  but  I 
shall  burn  every  one  of  them. 

GR.-RE.  And  do  you  know  what  I  shall  do  with  yours  ? 

MAR.  Take  care  you  never  come  begging  to  me  again 
to  forgive  you. 

GR.  RE.   {Picking  up  a  bit  of  straw}.     To  cut  oft'  every 


SCKNB  iv.J  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  121 

way  of  being  reconciled,  we  must  break  this  straw  between 
us ;  when  a  straw  is  broken,  it  settles  an  affair  between 
people  of  honour.18  Cast  none  of  your  sheep's  eyes  at 
me ; 19  I  will  be  angry. 

MAR.  Do  not  look  at  me  thus ;  I  am  too  much  provoked. 

GR.-RE.  Here,  break  this  straw;  this  is  the  way  of 
never  recanting  again ;  break.  What  do  you  laugh  at, 
you  jade  ? 

MAR.  Yes,  you  make  me  laugh. 

GR.-RE.  The  deuce  take  your  laughing  !  all  my  anger 
is  already  softened.  What  do  you  say?  shall  we  break  or 
not? 

MAR.  Just  as  you  please. 

GR.-RE.  Just  as  you  please. 

MAR.  Nay,  it  shall  be  as  you  please. 

GK.-RE.  Do  you  wish  me  never  to  love  you? 

MAR.  I?    As  you  like. 

GR.-RE.  As  you  yourself  like ;  only  say  the  word. 

MAR.  I  shall  say  nothing. 

GR.-RE.  Nor  I. 

MAR.  Nor  I. 

GR.-RE.  Faith!  we  had  better  forswear  all  this  non- 
sense ;  shake  hands,  I  pardon  you. 

MAR.  And  I  forgive  you. 

GR.-RE.  Bless  me!  how  you  bewitch  me  with  your 
charms. 


18  A  wisp  of  straw,  or  a  stick,  was  formerly  used  as  a  symbol  of  investi- 
ture of  a  feudal  fief.    According  to  some  authors  the  breaking  of  the  straw 
or  stick  was  a  proof  that  the  vassals  renounced  their  homage ;  hence  the 
allusion  of  Moliere.    The  breaking  of  a  staff  was  also  typical  of  the 
voluntary  or  compulsory  abandonment  of  power.     Formerly,  after  the 
death  of  the  kings  of  France,  the  grand  maitre  (master  of  the  household) 
broke  his  wand  of  office  over  the  grave,  saying  aloud  three  times,  le  roi 
est  mart,  and  then  Vive  le  roi.     Hence   also,  most  likely,  the  saying  of 
Prospero,  in  Shakespeare's  "Tempest"  Act  v.  Sc.  i,  "  I'll  break  my  staff," 
»'.  e.,  I  voluntarily  abandon  my  power.    Sometimes  the.  breaking  of  a  staff 
betokened  dishonour,  as  in  Shakespeare's  second  part  of  "Henry  VI."  Act 
i.  Sc.  2,  when  Gloster  says :  "  Methought  this  staff,  mine  office-badge  in 
court  was  broke  in  twain." 

19  According  to  tradition,  Gros-Ren6  and  Marinette  stand  on  the  stage 
back  to  back ;  from  time  to  time  they  look  to  the  right  and  to  the  left ; 
when  their  looks  meet  they  turn  their  heads  abruptly  away,  whilst  Gros- 
Ren6  presents  over  his  shoulder  to  Marinette  the  piece  of  straw,  which  the 
latter  takes  very  good  care  not  to  touch. 


122  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  v. 

MAR.  What  a  fool  is  Marinette  when  her  Gros-Rene 
is  by. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — MASCARILLE,  alone. 

"As  soon  as  darkness  has  invaded  the  town,  I  will  enter 
Lucile's  room;  go,  therefore,  and  get  ready  immediately 
the  dark  lantern,  and  whatever  arms  are  necessary." 
When  my  master  said  these  words,  it  sounded  in  my  ears 
as  if  he  had  said,  "Go  quickly  and  get  a  halter  to  hang 
yourself."  But  come  on,  master  of  mine,  for  I  was  so 
astonished  when  first  I  heard  your  order,  that  I  had  no 
time  to  answer  you;  but  I  shall  talk  with  you  now,  and 
confound  you ;  therefore  defend  yourself  well,  and  let  us 
argue  without  making  a  noise.  You  say  you  wish  to  go 
and  visit  Lucile  to-night?  "Yes,  Mascarille."  And 
what  do  you  propose  to  do?  "What  a  lover  does  who 
wishes  to  be  convinced."  "What  a  man  does  who  has 
very  little  brains,  who  risks  his  carcass  when  there  is  no 
occasion  for  it.  "But  do  you  know  what  is  my  motive? 
Lucile  is  angry."  Well,  so  much  the  worse  for  her. 
"But  my  love  prompts  me  to  go  and  appease  her."  But 
love  is  a  fool,  and  does  not  know  what  he  says :  will  this 
same  love  defend  us  against  an  enraged  rival,  father,  or 
brother?  "Do  you  think  any  of  them  intend  to  harm 
us?"  Yes,  really,  I  do  think  so;  and  especially  this  rival. 
"Mascarille,  in  any  case,  what  I  trust  to  is,  that  we  shall 
go  well  armed,  and  if  anybody  interrupts  us  we  shall 
draw."  Yes,  but  that  is  precisely  what  your  servant  does 
not  wish  to  do.  I  draw!  Good  Heavens!  am  I  a 
Roland,  master,  or  a  Ferragus?20  You  hardly  know  me. 

50  Roland,  or  Orlando  in  Italian,  one  of  Charlemagne's  paladins  and 
nephew",  is  represented  as  brave,  loyal,  and  simple-minded.  On  the  re- 
turn of  Charlemagne  from  Spain,  Roland,  who  commanded  the  rear- 
guard, fell  into  an  ambuscade  at  Roncezvalles,  in  the  Pyrenees  (778),  and 
perished,  with  the  flower  of  French  chivalry.  He  is  the  hero  of  Ariosto's 
poem,  "  Orlando  Furioso.'1  In  this  same  poem  Cant.  xii.  is  also  men- 
tioned Ferragus,  or  Ferrau  in  Italian,  a  Saracen  giant,  who  dropped  his 
helmet  into  the  river,  and  vowed  he  would  never  wear  another  till  he  had 
won  that  worn  by  Orlando ;  the  latter  slew  him  in  the  only  part  where  he 
was  vulnerable. 


scBNBii.j  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  123 

When  I,  who  love  myself  so  dearly,  consider  that  two 
inches  of  cold  steel  in  this  body  would  be  quite  sufficient 
to  send  a  poor  mortal  to  his  last  home,  I  am  particularly 
disgusted.  "But  you  will  be  armed  from  head  to  foot." 
So  much  the  worse.  I  shall  be  less  nimble  to  get  into  the 
thicket ;  besides,  there  is  no  armour  so  well  made  but 
some  villainous  point  will  pierce  its  joints.  "Oh!  you 
will  then  be  considered  a  coward."  Never  mind;  pro- 
vided I  can  but  always  move  my  jaws.  At  table  you  may 
set  me  down  for  as  good  as  four  persons,  if  you  like ;  but 
when  fighting  is  going  on,  you  must  not  count  me  for 
anything.  Moreover,  if  the  other  world  possesses  charms 
for  you,  the  air  of  this  world  agrees  very  well  with  me.  I 
do  not  thirst  after  death  and  wounds;  if  you  have  a  mind 
to  play  the  fool,  you  may  do  it  all  by  yourself,  I  assure 
you. 

SCENE  II. — VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

VAL.  I  never  felt  a  day  pass  more  slowly;  the  sun 
seems  to  have  forgotten  himself;  he  has  yet  such  a  course 
to  run  before  he  reaches  his  bed,  that  I  believe  he  will 
never  accomplish  it ;  his  slow  motion  drives  me  mad. 

MASC.  What  an  eagerness  to  go  in  the  dark,  to  grope 
about  for  some  ugly  adventure !  You  see  that  Lucile  is 
obstinate  in  her  repulses.  .  .  . 

VAL.  A  truce  to  these  idle  remonstrances.  Though  I 
were  sure  to  meet  a  hundred  deaths  lying  in  ambush,  yet 
I  feel  her  wrath  so  greatly,  that  I  shall  either  appease  it, 
or  end  my  fate.  I  am  resolved  on  that. 

MASC.  I  approve  of  your  design ;  but  it  is  unfortunate, 
sir,  that  we  must  get  in  secretly. 

VAL.  Very  well. 

MASC.  And  I  am  afraid  I  shall  only  be  in  the  way. 

VAL.  How  so  ? 

MASC.  I  have  a  cough  which  nearly  kills  me,  and  the 
m>ise  it  makes  may  betray  you.     Every  moment  .    .    . 
(He  coughs).     You  see  what  a  punishment  it  is. 

VAL.  You  will  get  better ;  take  some  liquorice. 

MASC.  I  do  not  think,  sir,  it  will  get  better.  I  should 
be  delighted  to  go  with  you,  but  I  should  be  very  sorry  if 
any  misfortune  should  befall  my  dear  master  through  me. 


124  THE  LOVE-TIFF.  [ACTV. 

SCENE  III. — VALERE,  LA  RAPIERE,  MASCARILLE. 

LA  RA.  Sir,  I  have  just  now  heard  from  good  authority 
that  Eraste  is  greatly  enraged  against  you,  and  that  Albert 
talks  also  of  breaking  all  the  bones  in  Mascarille's  body, 
on  his  daughter's  account. 

MASC.  I  ?  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  all  this  confusion. 
What  have  I  done  to  have  all  the  bones  in  my  body  bro- 
ken ?  Am  I  the  guardian  of  the  virginity  of  all  the  girls 
in  the  town,  that  I  am  to  be  thus  threatened  ?  Have  I  any 
influence  with  temptation?  Can  I  help  it,  I,  poor  fel- 
low, if  I  have  a  mind  to  try  it  ? 

VAL.  Oh  !  they  are  not  so  dangerous  as  they  pretend  to 
be ;  however  courageous  love  may  have  made  Eraste,  he 
will  not  have  so  easy  a  bargain  with  us. 

LA  RA.  If  you  should  have  any  need  for  it,  my  arm  is 
entirely  at  your  service.  You  know  me  to  be  at  all  times 
staunch.21 

VAL.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  M.  de  la  Rapiere. 

LA  RA.  I  have  likewise  two  friends  I  can  procure,  who 
will  draw  against  all  comers,  and  upon  whom  you  may 
safely  rely. 

MASC.  Accept  their  services,  sir. 

VAL.  You  are  too  kind. 

LA  RA.  Little  Giles  might  also  have  assisted  us,  if  a  sad 
accident  had  not  taken  him  from  us.  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  great 
pity !  He  was  such  a  handy  fellow,  too !  You  know  the 
trick  justice  played  him ;  he  died  like  a  hero ;  when  the  exe- 
cutioner broke  him  on  the  wheel,  he  made  his  exit  with- 
out uttering  a  word. 

VAL.  M.  de  la  Rapiere,  such  a  man  ought  to  be  la- 
mented, but,  as  for  your  escort,  I  thank  you,  I  want  them 
not. 

LA  RA.  Be  it  so,  but  do  not  forget  that  you  are  sought 
after,  and  may  have  some  scurvy  trick  played  upon  you. 

VAL.  And  I,  to  show  you  how  much  I  fear  him,  will 

21  It  is  thought  the  introduction  of  Mons.  de  la  Rapiere  contains  an 
allusion  to  the  poor  noblemen  of  Languedoc,  who  formerly  made  a  kind 
of  living  by  being  seconds  at  duels,  and  whom  the  Prince  de  Conti  com- 
pelled to  obey  the  edicts  of  Louis  XIV.  against  duelling.  The  Love-tiff 
was  first  played  in  1656  at  Be"ziers,  where  the  States  of  Languedoc  were 
assembled. 


SCENE  v.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  12$ 

offer  him  the  satisfaction  he  desires,  if  he  seeks  me  ;  I  will 
immediately  go  all  over  the  town,  only  accompanied  by 
Mascarille. 

SCENE  IV. — VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

MASC.  What,  sir?  will  you  tempt  Heaven?  Do  not  be 
so  presumptuous !  Lack-a-day !  you  see  how  they  threaten 
us.  How  on  every  side  .  .  . 

VAL.  What  are  you  looking  at  yonder? 

MASC.  I  smell  a  cudgel  that  way.  In  short,  if  you  will 
take  my  prudent  advice,  do  not  let  us  be  so  obstinate  as  to 
remain  in  the  street ;  let  us  go  and  shut  ourselves  up. 

VAL.  Shut  ourselves  up,  rascal  ?  How  dare  you  propose 
to  me  such  a  base  action  ?  Come  along,  and  follow  me, 
without  any  more  words. 

MASC.  Why,  sir,  my  dear  master,  life  is  so  sweet !  One 
can  die  but  once,  and  it  is  for  such  a  long  time ! 

VAL.  I  shall  half  kill  you,  if  I  hear  anything  more.  Here 
comes  Ascanio ;  let  us  leave  him;  we  must  find  out  what 
side  he  will  choose.  However,  come  along  with  me  into 
the  house,  to  take  whatever  arms  we  may  want. 

MASC.  I  have  no  great  itching  for  fighting.  A  curse  on 
love  and  those  darned  girls,  who  will  be  tasting  it,  and 
then  look  as  if  butter  would  hot  melt  in  their  mouth. 

SCENE  V. — ASCANIO,  FROSINE. 

Asc.  Is  it  really  true,  Frosine,  do  I  not  dream  ?  Pray 
tell  me  all  that  has  happened,  from  first  to  last. 

FROS.  You  shall  know  all  the  particulars  in  good 
time ;  be  patient ;  such  adventures  are  generally  told  over 
and  over  again,  and  that  every  moment.  You  must  know 
then  that  after  this  will,  which  was  on  condition  of  a  male 
heir  being  born,  Albert's  wife  who  was  enceinte,  gave  birth 
to  you.  Albert,  who  had  stealthily  and  long  beforehand  laid 
his  plan,  changed  you  for  the  son  of  Inez,  the  flower- 
woman,  and  gave  you  to  my  mother  to  nurse,  saying  it 
was  her  own  child.  Some  ten  months  after,  death  took 
away  this  little  innocent,  whilst  Albert  was  absent ;  his 
wife  being  afraid  of  her  husband,  and  inspired  by  mater- 
nal love,  invented  a  new  stratagem.  She  secretly  took 
her  own  daughter  back ;  you  received  the  name  of  the 


126  THE    LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  v. 

boy,  who  had  taken  your  place,  whilst  the  death  of  that 
pretended  son  was  kept  a  secret  from  Albert,  who  was  told 
that  his  daughter  had  died.  Now  the  mystery  of  your 
birth  is  cleared  up,  which  your  supposed  mother  had 
hitherto  concealed.  She  gives  certain  reasons  for  acting 
in  this  manner,  and  may  have  others  to  give,  for  her  in- 
terests were  not  the  same  as  yours.  In  short,  this  visit,22 
from  which  I  expected  so  little,  has  proved  more  serviceable 
to  your  love  than  could  have  been  imagined-  This  Inez 
has  given  up  all  claim  to  you.  As  it  became  necessary  to 
reveal  this  secret,  on  account  of  your  marriage,  we  two 
informed  your  father  of  it ;  a  letter  of  his  deceased  wife 
has  confirmed  all.  Pursuing  our  reasoning  yet  farther,  and 
being  rather  fortunate  as  well  as  skilful,  we  have  so  cun- 
ningly interwoven  the  interests  of  Albert  and  of  Polydore, 
so  gradually  unfolded  all  this  mystery  to  the  latter,  that 
we  might  not  make  things  appear  too  terrible  to  him  in 
the  beginning,  and,  in  a  word,  to  tell  you  all,  so  pru- 
dently led  his  mind  step  by  step  to  a  reconciliation,  that 
Polydore  is  now  as  anxious  as  your  father  to  legitimize 
that  connection  which  is  to  make  you  happy. 

Asc.  Ah  !  Frosine,  what  happiness  you  prepare  for  me. 
.    .    .  What  do  I  not  owe  to  your  fortunate  zeal  ? 

FROS.  Moreover,  the  good  man  is  inclined  to  be  merry, 
and  has  forbidden  us  to  mention  anything  of  this  affair  to 
his  son. 

SCENE  VI. — POLYDORE,  ASCANIO,  FROSINE. 

POL.  Come  hither,  daughter,  since  I  may  give  you  this 
name  now,  for  I  know  the  secret  which  this  disguise  con- 
ceals You  have  shown  so  much  resolution,  ingenuity, 
and  archness  in  your  stratagem,  that  I  forgive  you ;  I 
think  my  son  will  esteem  himself  happy  when  he  knows 
that  you  are  the  object  of  his  love.  You  are  worth  to  him 
more  than  all  the  treasures  in  this  world  ;  and  I  will  tell 
him  so.  But  here  he  comes  :  let  us  divert  ourselves  with 
this  event.  Go  and  tell  all  the  people  to  come  hither  im- 
mediately. 

Asc.  To  obey  you,  sir,  shall  be  the  first  compliment  I 
pay  you. 

82  That  is  the  visit  of  which  Frosine  speaks,  Act  iv..  Scene  i,  p.  113. 


SCKNB  vii.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  I2/ 

SCENE  VII. — MASCARILLE,  POLYDORE,  VALERE. 

MASC.  Misfortunes  are  often  revealed  by  Heaven  :  I 
dreamt  last  night  of  pearls  unstrung  and  broken  eggs,asir. 
This  dream  depresses  my  spirits. 

VAL.   Cowardly  rascal ! 

POL.  Valere,  an  encounter  awaits  you,  wherein  all  your 
valour  will  be  necessary  :  you  are  to  cope  with  a  powerful 
adversary. 

MASC.  Will  nobody  stir  to  prevent  people  from  cutting 
each  other's  throats  ?  As  for  me,  I  do  not  care  about  it ; 
but  if  any  fatal  accident  should  deprive  you  of  your  son, 
do  not  lay  the  blame  on  me. 

POL.  No,  no  ;  in  this  case  I  myself  urge  him  to  do  what 
he  ought. 

MASC.  What  an  unnatural  father  ! 

VAL.  This  sentiment,  sir,  shows  you  to  be  a  man  of 
honour;  I  respect  you  the  more  for  it.  I  know  I  have 
offended  you,  I  am  to  blame  for  having  done  all  this  with- 
out a  father's  consent ;  but  however  angry  you  may  be 
with  me,  Nature  always  will  prevail.  You  do  what  is  truly 
honourable,  in  not  believing  that  I  am  to  be  terrified  by 
the  threats  of  Eraste. 

POL.  They  just  now  frightened  me  with  his  threats,  but 
since  then  things  have  changed  greatly;  you  will  be 
attacked  by  a  more  powerful  enemy,  without  being  able  to 
flee  from  him. 

MASC.  Is  there  no  way  of  making  it  up  ? 

VAL  !  I  flee  ! — Heaven  forbid  !     And  who  can  this  be  ? 

POL.  Ascanio. 

VAL.  Ascanio? 

POL.  Yes  ;  you  shall  see  him  appear  presently. 

VAL.  He,  who-  has  pledged  his  word  to  serve  me  ! 

POL.  Yes,  it  is  he  who  says  he  has  a  quarrel  with  you  ; 
he,  who  is  determined  to  decide  the  quarrel  by  single 
combat,  to  which  he  challenges  you. 

MASC.  He  is  a  good  fellow :  he  knows  that  generous 
minds  do  not  endanger  other  people's  lives  by  their 
quarrels. 

M  In  a  little  book  still  sold  on  the  quays  of  Paris,  and  called  la  Cle  des 
Songes,  it  is  said  that  to  dream  of  pearls  denotes  "  embarrassed  affairs," 
and  of  broken  eggs,  "  loss  of  place  and  lawsuits." 


128  THE   LOVE-TIFF. 

POL.  He  accuses  you  of  deceit.  His  anger  appears  to 
me  to  have  so  just  a  cause,  that  Albert  and  I  have  agreed 
you  should  give  Ascanio  satisfaction  for  this  affront,  but 
publicly,  and  without  any  delay,  according  to  the  for- 
malities requisite  in  such  a  case. 

VAL.  What !  father ;  and  did  Lucile  obstinately  .   .  .  ? 

POL.  Lucile  is  to  marry  Eraste,  and  blames  you  too ; 
and  the  better  to  prove  your  story  to  be  false,  is  resolved 
to  give  her  hand  to  Eraste  before  your  very  face. 

VAL.  Ha  !  this  impudence  is  enough  to  drive  me  mad. 
Has  she  lost,  then,  all  sense,  faith,  conscience,  and 
honour  ? 

SCENE  VIII.  —  ALBERT,  POLYDORE,  LUCILE,  ERASTE, 
VALERE,  MASCARILLE. 

ALB.  Well !  where  are  the  combatants  ?  They  are 
bringing  ours.  Have  you  prepared  yours  for  the  en- 
counter ? 

VAL.  Yes,  yes ;  I  am  ready,  since  you  compel  me  to  it ; 
if  I  at  all  hesitated,  it  was  because  I  still  felt  a  little  re- 
spect, and  not  on  account  of  the  valour  of  the  champion 
who  is  to  oppose  me.  But  I  have  been  urged  too  far. 
This  respect  is  at  an  end;  I  am  prepared  for  any  ca- 
tastrophe !  I  have  been  treated  so  strangely  and  treacher- 
ously, that  my  love  must  and  shall  be  revenged.  (To 
Lucile}.  Not  that  I  still  pretend  to  your  hand  :  my  former 
love  is  now  swallowed  up  in  wrath ;  and  when  I  have  made 
your  shame  public,  your  guilty  marriage  will  not  in  the 
least  disturb  me.  Lucile,  your  behaviour  is  infamous : 
scarcely  can  I  believe  my  own  eyes.  You  show  yourself 
so  opposed  to  all  modesty,  that  you  ought  to  die  for 
shame. 

Luc.  Such  reproaches  might  affect  me,  if  I  had  not  one 
at  hand  to  avenge  my  cause.  Here  comes  Ascanio ;  he 
shall  soon  have  the  pleasure,  and  without  giving  himself 
much  trouble,  of  making  you  change  your  language. 

SCENE  IX. — ALBERT,  POLYDORE,  ASCANIO,  LUCILE, 
ERASTE,  VALERE,  FROSINE,  MARINETTE,  GROS-RENE, 
MASCARILLE. 

VAL.  He   shall   not   make   me   change    my   language, 


SCENBIX.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  129 

though  he  had  twenty  arms  besides  his  own.  I  am  sorry 
he  defends  a  guilty  sister;  but  since  he  is  foolish  enough 
to  pick  a  quarrel  with  me,  I  shall  give  him  satisfaction, 
and  you  also,  my  valiant  gentleman. 

ERAS.  A  short  time  ago  I  took  an  interest  in  this,  but 
as  Ascanio  has  taken  the  affair  upon  himself,  I  will  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  it,  but  leave  it  to  him. 

VAL.   You  do  well ;  prudence  is  always  timely,  but  .    . 

ERAS.   He  shall  give  you  satisfaction  for  us  all. 

VA-L.  He? 

POL.  Do  not  deceive  yourself;  you  do  not  yet  know 
what  a  strange  fellow  Ascanio  is. 

ALB.  He  is-  blind  to  it  now,  but  Ascanio  will  let  him 
know  in  a  little  time. 

VAL.  Come  on,  then ;  let  him  do  so  now. 

MAR.   What!  before  everybody? 

GR.-RE.   That  would  not  be  decent. 

VAL.  Are  you  making  fun  of  me  ?  I  will  break  the 
head  of  any  fellow  who  laughs.  But  let  us  see  what 
Ascanio  is  going  to  do. 

Asc.  No,  no.  I  am  not  so  bad  as  they  make  me  out; 
in  this  adventure,  in  which  every  one  has  put  me  forward, 
you  shall  see  my  weakness  appear  more  than  anything 
else ;  you  will  discover  that  Heaven,  to  which  we  must  all 
submit,  did  not  give  me  a  heart  to  hold  out  against  you, 
but  that  it  reserved  for  you  the  easy  triumph  of  putting  an 
end  to  Lucile's  brother.  Yes;  far  from  boasting  of  the 
power  of  his  arm,  Ascanio  shall  receive  death  from  your 
hands;  nay,  would  gladly  die,  if  his  death  could  contri- 
bute to  your  satisfaction,  by  giving  you,  in  the  presence 
of  all  this  company,  a  wife  who  lawfully  belongs  to  you. 

VAL.  No,  even  the  whole  world,  after  her  perfidy  and 
shamelessness  .  .  . 

Asc.  Ah !  Valere,  allow  me  to  tell  you  that  the  heart 
which  is  pledged  to  you  is  guilty  of  no  crime  against  you; 
her  love  is  still  pure,  and  her  constancy  unshaken ;  I  call 
your  own  father  himself  to  witness  that  I  speak  the  truth. 

POL.  Yes,  son,  we  have  laughed  enough  at  your  rage ; 

I  see  it  is  time  to  undeceive  you ;  she  to  whom  you  are 

bound  by  oath   is  concealed  under  the  dress  you  here 

behold.     Some  question  about  property  was  the  cause  of 

VOL.  i.  i 


130  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  [ACT  v. 

this  disguise,  which  from  her  earliest  youth  deceived  so 
many  people.  Lately  love  was  the  cause  of  another  which 
deceived  you,  whilst  it  made  of  the  two  families  but  one. 
Yes,  in  a  word,  it  is  she  whose  subtle  skill  obtained  your 
hand  at  night,  who  pretended  to  be  Lucile,  and  by  this 
contrivance,  which  none  discovered,  has  perplexed  you 
all  so  much.  But  since  Ascanio  now  gives  place  to  Doro- 
thea, your  love  must  be  free  from  every  appearance  of 
deceit,  and  be  strengthened  by  a  more  sacred  knot. 

ALB.  This  is  the  single  combat  by  which  you  were  to 
give  us  satisfaction  for  your  offence,  and  which  is  not  for- 
bidden by  any  laws.24 

POL.  Such  an  event  amazes  you,  but  all  hesitation  is 
now  too  late. 

VAL.  No,  no,  I  do  not  hesitate ;  if  this  adventure  as- 
tonishes me,  it  is  a  flattering  surprise ;  I  find  myself  seized 
with  admiration,  love,  and  pleasure.  Is  it  possible  that 
those  eyes  .  .  .  ? 

ALB.  This  dress,  dear  Valere,  is  not  a  proper  one  to 
hear  your  fine  speeches  in.  Let  her  go  and  put  on  another, 
and  meanwhile  you  shall  know  the  particulars  of  the  event. 

VAL.  Pardon  me,  Lucile,  if  my  mind,  duped  by  ... 

Luc.   It  is  easy  to  forget  that. 

ALB.  Come,  these  compliments  will  do  as  well  at  home ; 
we  shall  then  have  plenty  of  time  to  pay  them  to  one 
another. 

ERAS.  But  in  talking  thus  you  do  not  seem  to  think 
that  there  is  still  occasion  for  manslaughter  here.  Our 
loves  are  indeed  crowned,  but  who  ought  to  obtain  the 
hand  of  Marinette,  his  Mascarille  or  my  Gros-Rene? 
This  affair  must  end  in  blood. 

MASC.  No,  no,  my  blood  suits  my  body  too  well ;  let 
him  marry  her  in  peace,  it  will  be  nothing  to  me.  I  know 
Marinette  too  well  to  think  marriage  will  be  any  bar  to 
my  courting  her. 

MAR.  And  do  you  think  I  will  make  my  gallant  of  you  ? 
A  husband  does  not  matter ;  anything  will  do  for  that. 
We  do  not  stand,  then,  upon  so  much  ceremony ;  but  a 

24  Severe  laws  were  promulgated  in  the  preceding  reign  against  duel- 
ling; Louis  XIV.  also  published  two  edicts  against  it  in  1643  and  in  1651. 
The  Love-  Tiff  was  first  performed  in  1656. 


SCENE  ix.]  THE   LOVE-TIFF.  13! 

gallant  should  be  well  made  enough  to  make  one's  mouth 
water. 

GR.-RE.  Listen !  When  we  are  united  by  marriage,  I 
insist  that  you  should  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  all  sparks. 

MASC.  Do  you  think,  brother,  to  marry  her  for  yourself 
alone  ? 

GR.-RE.  Of  course ;  I  will  have  a  virtuous  wife,  or  else 
I  shall  kick  up  a  fine  row. 

MASC.  Ah !  lack-a-day,  you  shall  do  as  others,  and 
become  more  gentle.  Those  people  who  are  so  severe 
and  critical  before  marriage,  often  degenerate  into  pacific 
husbands. 

MAR.  Make  yourself  easy,  my  dear  husband,  and  do 
not  have  the  least  fear  about  my  fidelity ;  flattery  will  pro- 
duce no  impression  on  me,  and  I  shall  tell  you  everything. 

MASC.  Oh !  what  a  cunning  wench  to  make  of  a  hus- 
band a  confidant. 

MAR.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  knave  of  clubs.25 

ALB.  For  the  third  time,  I  say,  let  us  go  home,  and 
continue  at  leisure  such  an  agreeable  conversation. 

^The  original  has  as  de  pique,  and  different  commentators  have  of 
course  given  various  explanations.  But  why,  says  M.  Despois,  should 
Marinette,  who  appears  to  be  fond  of  cards,  not  call  people  by  names  de- 
rived from  her  favourite  game  ?  She  calls  Gros-Rene  in  another  place 
beau  valet  de  carreau.  (See  Note  12,  page  113.) 


LES  PRECIEUSES  RIDICULES; 

COMEDIE    EN    UN    ACTE. 
1659. 


THE  PRETENTIOUS  YOUNG  LADIES; 

A    COMEDY    IN    ONE    ACT. 

(THE  ORIGINAL  IN  PROSE.) 
1659. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


Moliere  began  in  The  Pretentious  Young  Ladies  to  paint  men  and 
women  as  they  are  ;  to  make  living  characters  and  existing  manners  the 
ground-work  of  his  plays.  From  that  time  he  abandoned  all  imitation  of 
Italian  or  Spanish  imbroglios  and  intrigues. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  aristocratic  society  attempted,  about  the  latter 
years  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.,  to  amend  the  coarse  and  licentious  ex- 
pressions, which,  during  the  civil  wars  had  been  introduced  into  literature 
as  well  as  into  manners.  It  was  praiseworthy  of  some  high-born  ladies  in 
Parisian  society  to  endeavour  to  refine  the  language  and  the  mind.  But 
there  was  a  very  great  difference  between  the  influence  these  ladies  exer- 
cised from  1620  until  1640,  and  what  took  place  in  1658,  the  year  when 
Moliere  returned  to  Paris.  The  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  and  the  aristo- 
cratic drawing-rooms,  had  then  done  their  work,  and  done  it  well ;  but 
they  were  succeeded  by  a  clique  which  cared  only  for  what  was  nicely 
said,  or  rather  what  was  out  of  the  common.  Instead  of  using  an  elegant 
and  refined  diction,  they  employed  only  a  pretentious  and  conceitedly 
affected  style,  which  became  highly  ridiculous  ;  instead  of  improving  the 
national  idiom  they  completely  spoilt  it.  Where  formerly  D'Urfe,  Mal- 
herbe,  Racan,  Balzac,  and  Voiture  reigned,  Chapelain,  Scudery,  Menage, 
and  the  Abbe  Cotin,  "  the  father  of  the  French  Riddle,"  ruled  in  their 
stead.  Moreover,  every  lady  in  Paris,  as  well  as  in  the  provinces,  no 
matter  what  her  education  was,  held  her  drawing-room,  where  nothing 
was  heard  but  a  ridiculous,  exaggerated,  and  what  was  worse,  a  borrowed 
phraseology.  The  novels  of  Mdlle.  de  Scudery  became  the  text-book  of 
the  precieux  and  the  precieuses,  for  such  was  the  name  given  to  these  gen- 
tlemen and  ladies  who  set  up  for  wits,  and  thought  they  displayed  ex- 
quisite taste,  refined  ideas,  fastidious  judgment,  and  consummate  and  crit- 
ical discrimination,  whilst  they  only  uttered  vapid  and  blatant  nonsense. 
What  other  language  can  be  used  when  we  find  that  they  called  the  sun 
I'aimable  eclairant  le  plus  beau  du  monde,  I'cpoux  de  la  nature,  and  that 
when  speaking  of  an  old  gentleman  with  grey  hair,  they  said,  not  as  a 
joke,  but  seriously,  il  a  des  quittances  d' amour.  A  few  of  their  expres- 
sions, however,  are  employed  even  at  the  present  time,  such  as,  chatier 
ton  style;  to  correct  one's  style  ;  depenser  une  heure,  to  spend  an  hour  ; 
revettr  ses  pensees  d'  expressions  nobles,  to  clothe  one's  thoughts  in  noble 
expressions,  etc. 

Though  the  precieux  and  precieuses  had  been  several  times  attacked  be- 
fore, it  remained  for  Moliere  to  give  them  their  death  blow,  and  after  the 
performance  of  his  comedy  the  name  became  a  term  of  ridicule  and  con- 
tumely. What  enhanced  the  bitterness  of  the  attack  was  the  difference 

'35 


136 


THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   I.ADIKS. 


between  Moliere  s  natural  style  and  the  affected  tone  of  the  would-be 
elegants  he  brought  upon  the  stage. 

This  comedy,  in  prose,  was  first  acted  at  Paris,  at  the  Theatre  du  Petit 
Bourbon,  on  the  i8th  of  November,  1659,  and  met  with  great  success. 
Through  the  influence  of  some  noble  precieux  and  precieuses  it  was  for- 
bidden until  the  2d  of  December,  when  the  concourse  of  spectators  was 
so  great  that  it  had  to  be  performed  twice  a  day,  that  the  prices  of  nearly 
all  the  places  were  raised  (See  Note  7,  page  xxv.),  and  that  it  ran  for  four 
months  together.  We  have  referred  in  our  prefatory  memoir  of  Moliere 
to  some  of  the  legendary  anecdotes  connected  with  this  play. 

It  has  also  been  said  that  our  author  owed  perhaps  the  first  idea  of  this 
play  to  a  scarcely-known  work,  le  Cercle  des  Femmes,  ou  le  Secret  du  Lit 
Nuptial;  entretiens  comiques,  written  by  a  long-forgotten  author,  Samuel 
Chapuzeau,  in  which  a  servant,  dressed  in  his  master's  clothes,  is  well  re- 
ceived by  a  certain  lady  who  had  rejected  the  master.  But  as  the  witty 
dialogue  is  the  principal  merit  in  Moliere's  play,  it  is  really  of  no  great 
consequence  who  first  suggested  the  primary  idea. 

The  piece,  though  played  in  1659,  was  only  printed  on  the  2gth  of 
January,  1660,  by  Guillaume  de  Luyne,  a  bookseller  in  Pans,  with  a  pre- 
face by  Moliere,  which  we  give  here  below  : 

A  strange  thing  it  is,  that  People  should  be  put  in  print  against  their  Will.  I 
know  nothing  so  unjust,  and  should  pardon  any  other  Violence  much  sooner  than 
that. 

Not  that  I  here  intend  to  personate  the  bashful  Author,  and  out  of  a  point  of 
Honour  undervalue  my  Comedy.  I  should  very  unseasonably  disoblige  all  the 
People  of  Paris,  should  I  accuse  them  of  having  applauded  a  foolish  Thing  :  as  the 
Public  is  absolute  Judge  of  such  sort  of  Works,  it  would  be  Impertinence  in  me  to 
contradict  it ;  and  even  if  I  should  have  had  the  worst  Opinion  in  the  World  of  my 
Pretentious  Young  Ladies  before  they  appeared  upon  the  Stage,  I  must  now  believe 
them  of  some  Value,  since  so  many  People  agree  to  speak  in  their  behalf.  But  as 
great  part  of  the  Pleasure  it  gave  depends  upon  the  Action  and  Tone  of  the 
Voice,  it  behooved  me,  not  to  let  them  be  deprived  of  those  Ornaments  ;  and  that 
success  they  had  in  the  representation,  was,  I  thought,  sufficiently  favorable  for  me 
to  stop  there.  I  was,  I  say,  determined,  to  let  them  only  be  seen  by  Candlelight, 
that  I  might  give  no  room  for  any  one  to  use  the  Proverb ; !  nor  was  I  willing  they 
should  leap  from  the  Theatre  de  Bourbon  into  the  Galerie  da  Palais.*  Notwith- 
standing, I  have  been  unable  to  avoid  it,  and  am  fallen  under  the  Misfortune  of  see- 
ing a  surreptitious  Copy  of  my  Play  in  the  Hands  of  the  Booksellers,  together  with 
a  Privilege,  knavishly  obtained,  for  printing  it.  I  cried  out  in  vain,  O  Times  !  O 
Manners  !  They  showed  me  that  there  was  a  Necessity  for  me  to  be  in  print,  or 
have  a  Law-suit ;  and  the  last  evil  is  even  worse  than  the  first.  Fate  therefore 
must  be  submitted  to,  and  I  must  consent  to  a  Thing,  which  they  would  not  fail  to 
do  without  me. 

Lord,  the  strange  Perplexity  of  sending  a  book  abroad  !  and  what  an  awkward 
Figure  an  Author  makes  the  first  time  he  appears  in  print !  Had  they  allowed  me 
time,  I  should  have  thought  it  over  better,  and  have  taken  all  those  Precautions 
which  the  Gentlemen  Authors,  who  are  now  my  Brethren,  commonly  make  use  of 
upon  the  like  Occasions.  Besides,  some  noble  Lord,  whom  I  should  have  chosen, 
in  spite  of  his  Teeth,  to  be  the  Patron  of  my  Work,  and  whose  Generosity  I  should 
have  excited  by  an  Epistle  Dedicatory  very  elegantly  composed,  I  should  have  en- 
deavoured to  make  a  fine  and  learned  Preface ;  nor  do  I  want  books  which  would 
have  supplied  me  with  all  that  can  be  said  in  a  scholarly  Manner  upon  Tragedy  and 
Comedy;  the  Etymology  of  them  both,  their  Origin,  their  Definition,  and  so  forth. 
I  should  likewise  have  spoken  to  my  friends,  who  to  recommend  my  Performance, 
would  not  have  refused  me  Verses,  either  in  French  or  Latin.  I  have  even  some 

1  In  Moliere's  time  it  was  proverbially  said  of  a  woman,  "  Elle  est  belle  a  la 
chandelle,  tnais  le  grand  jour  gate  tout."  She  is  beautiful  by  candle-light,  but 


day-light  spoils  everything 
*  The  Galerie  du  Palaii 


mt 

!s  was  the  place  where  Moliere's  publisher  lived. 


THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG    LADIES.  137 

that  would  have  praised  me  in  Greek,  and  Nobody  is  ignorant,  that  a  Commenda- 
tion in  Greek  is  of  a  marvellous  efficacy  at  the  Beginning  of  a  Book.  But  I  am 
sent  Abroad  without  giving  me  time  to  look  about  me  ;  and  I  can't  so  much  as  ob- 
tain the  Liberty  of  sneaking  two  words,  to  justify  my  Intention,  as  to  the  subject  of 
this  Comedy.  I  would  willingly  have  shewn  that  it  is  confined  throughout  within 
the  Bounds  of  allowable  and  decent  Satire,  that  Things  the  most  excellent  are  liable 
to  be  mimicked  by  wretched  Apes,  who  deserve  to  be  ridiculed  ;  that  these  absurd 
Imitations  of  what  is  most  perfect,  have  been  at  all  times  the  Subject  of  Comedy  ; 
and  that,  for  the  same  Reason,  that  the  truly  Learned  and  truly  Brave  never  yet 
thought  fit  to  be  offended  at  the  Doctor  or  the  Captain  in  a  Comedy,  no  more  than 
Judges,  Princes,  and  Kings  at  seeing  Trivelin,3  or  any  other  upon  the  Stage,  ridicu- 
lously act  the  Judge,  the  Prince,  or  King  ;  so  the  true  Precieuses  would  be  in  the 
wrong  to  be  angry,  when  the  pretentious  Ones  are  exposed,  who  imitate  them 
awkwardly.  In  a  Word,  as  I  said,  I  am  not  allowed  breathing  time ;  Mr.  de 
Luyne  is  going  to  bind  me  up  this  Instant :  .  .  .  let  it  be  so,  since  the  Fates  so 
ordain  it. 

In  the  third  volume  of  the  "  Select  Comedies  of  M.  de  Moliere,"  this 
comedy  is  called  "  The  Conceited  Ladies."  It  is  dedicated  to  Miss  Le 
Bas  in  the  following  words  : — 

MADAM, 

Addresses  of  this  Nature  are  usually  fill'd  with  Flattery:  And  it  is  become  so 
general  and  known  a  Practice  for  Authors  of  every  kind  to  bedeck  with  all  Perfec- 
tions Those  to  whom  they  present  their  Writings,  that  Dedications  are,  by  most 
People,  at  Present,  interpreted  like  Dreams,  directly  backwards.  I  dare  not, 

therefore,  attempt  Your  Character,  lest  even  Truth  itself  should  be  suspected 

Thus  far,  however,  I'll  venture  to  declare,  that  if  sprightly  blooming  Youth,  en- 
dearing sweet  Good-nature,  flowing  gentile  Wit,  and  an  easy  unaffected  Conversa- 
tion, maybe  reckon'd  Charms, — Miss  LE  BAS  is  exquisitely  charming. 

The  following  COMEDY  of  Monsieur  MOLIERE,  that  celebrated  Dramatick  Writer, 
was,  by  him,  intended  to  reprove  a  vain  fantastical,  conceited  and  preposterous 
Humour,  which  about  that  time  prevailed  very  much  in  France.  It  had  thedesir'd 
good  Effect,  and  conduced  a  great  deal  towards  rooting  out  a  Taste  so  unreasonable 
and  ridiculous. — As  Pride,  Conceit,  Vanity,  and  Affectation,  are  Foibles  so  often 
found  amongst  the  Fair  Sex  at  present,  I  have  attempted  this  Translation,  in  hopes 

of  doing  service  to  my  pretty  Country- Women. And,  certainly,  it  must  have  a 

double  efficacy,  under  the  Patronage  of  one  who  is  so  bright  an  Example  of  the 
contrary  fine  Accomplishments,  which  a  large  Fortune  makes  her  not  the  less  care- 
ful to  improve. 

I  am  not  so  presumptuous  to  imagine  that  my  English  can  do  sufficient  Justice 
to  the  sense  of  this  admir'd  AUTHOR;  and,  therefore,  have  caused  the  ORIGINAL  to 
be  placed  against  it  Page  for  Page,  hoping  that,  both  together,  may  prove  an  agree- 
able and  useful  Entertainment. But  I  have  detain'd  you  too  long  already,  and 

shall  only  add,. that  I  am,  with  much  respect,  and  every  good  Wish,  MADAM,  Your 
most  Obedient  Humble  Servant, 

THE  TRANSLATOR. 

The  Precieuses  Ridicules  have  been  partly  imitated  in  "  The  Damoiselles 
&  la  Mode,  Compos'd  and  Written  by  Richard  Flecknoe.  London  :  Print- 
ed for  the  Author,  1667.  To  their  graces  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Newcastle,  the  Author  dedicates  this  his  comedy  more  humbly  than  by 
way  of  epistle."  This  gentleman,  who  was  "  so  distinguished  as  a 
wretched  poet,  that  his  name  had  almost  become  proverbial,"  and  who 
gave  the  title  to  Dryden's  Mac- Flecknoe,  is  said  to  have  been  originally  a 
Jesuit.  Langbaine  states  "  that  his  acquaintance  with  the  nobility  was 
more  than  with  the  Muses."  In  the  preface  our  author  says  :  "  This 
Comedy  is  taken  out  of  several  excellent  pieces  of  Moltire.  The  main 

•The  Doctor  and  the  Captain  were  traditional  personages  of  the  Italian  stage ; 
their  parts  need  no  further  explanation  ;  Trivelin  was  a  popular  Italian  actor, 
who  in  a  humorous  and  exaggerated  way  played  the  parts  of  Judges,  Princes,  and 
Kings. 


138  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES. 

plot  out  of  his  Pretieusee's  Ridiculee's  ;  the  Counterplot  of  Sganarclle 
out  of  his  Escole  des  Femmes,  and  out  of  the  Escole  des  Marys,  the  two 
Naturals  ;  all  which,  like  so  many  Pretieuse  stones,  I  have  brought  out  of 
France ;  and  as  a  Lapidary  set  in  one  Jewel  to  adorn  our  English 
stage." 

This  motley  play  was  never  acted  ;  at  least  the  author  says  :  "  for  the 
Acting  it,  those  who  have  the  Governing  of  the  Stage,  have  their  Hu- 
mours, and  wou'd  be  intreated  ;  and  I  have  mine  and  won't  intreat  them  ; 
and  were  all  Dramatick  Writers  of  my  mind,  they  shou'd  wear  their  old 
Playes  Thred-bare,  e're  they  shou'd  have  any  New,  till  they  better  under- 
stood their  own  Interest,  and  how  to  distinguish  betwixt  good  and  bad." 

The  "  Prologue  intended  for  the  overture  of  the  Theater  1666,"  opens 
thus  ;— 

"  In  these  sad  Times*  our  Author  has  been  long 
Studying  to  give  you  some  diversion  ; 
And  he  has  ta'en  the  way  to  do't,  which  he 
Thought  most  diverting,  mirth  and  Comedy  ; 
And  now  he  knows  there  are  inough  i'  the  Town 
At  name  of  mirth  and  Comedy  will  frown, 
And  sighing  say,  the  times  are  bad  ;  what  then  ? 
Will  their  being  sad  and  heavy  better  them  ?" 

According  to  the  list  of  "  The  Representers,  as  they  were  first  design'd,'' 
I  see  that  Nell  Gwyn  should  have  played  the  part  of  "  Lysette,  the  Da- 
moiselle's  waiting  Woman." 

James  Miller,  a  well-known  dramatist,  and  joint-translator  of  Moliere, 
with  H.  Baker,  has  also  imitated  part  of  "  the  Pretentious  Young  Ladies,'' 
and  with  another  part  borrowed  from  Moliere's  School  for  Husbands,  two 
characters  taken  from  Moliere's  Learned  Ladies,  and  some  short  speeches 
borrowed  from  the  Countess  of  Escarbagnas,  he  composed  a  comedy,  which 
was  played  at  Drury  Lane,  March  6th,  1735,  under  the  title  of  The  Man 
of  Taste,  or,  The  Guardians.  Mr.  Miller  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of 
indomitable  spirit  and  industry.  Being  a  clergyman,  with  a  very  small 
stipend,  he  wrote  plays  to  improve  his  circumstances,  but  offended  both 
his  bishop  and  the  public.  At  last  he  was  presented  to  the  very  valuable 
living  of  Upcerne,  in  Dorsetshire,  and  was  also  successful  with  a  transla- 
tion of  Mahomet  of  Voltaire,  but  died  within  the  year  after  his  induction. 
The  Man  of  Taste  was  printed  for  J.  Watts,  MDCCXXXV.,  and  is  dedi- 
cated to  Lord  Weymouth.  We  give  part  of  the  dedication  : 

"  As  to  the  Attempt  here  made  to  expose  the  several  Vices  and  Follies  that  at 
present  flourish  in  Vogue,  I  hope  your  Lordship  will  think  it  confined  within  the 
bounds  of  a  modest  and  wholesome  Chastisement.  That  it  is  a  very  seasonable 
one,  I  believe,  every  Person  will  acknowledge.  When  what  is  set  up  for  the 
Standard  of  Taste,  is  but  just  the  Reverse  of  Truth  and  Common  Sense  ;  and  that 
which  is  dignify'd  with  the  Name  of  Politeness,  is  deficient  in  nothing — but  Decen- 
cy and  Good  Manners  :  When  all  Distinctions  of  Station  and  Fortune  are  broke  in 
upon,  so  that  a  Peer  and  a  Meckanick  are  cloathed  in  the  same  Habits,  and  indulge 
in  the  same  Diversions  and  Luxuries  :  When  Husbands  are  ruin'd,  Children  robb'd, 
and  Tradesmen  starv'd,  in  order  to  give  Estates  to  a  French  Harlequin,  and  Italian 
Eunuch,  for  a  Shrug  or  a  Song  ;6  shall  not  fair  and  fearless  Satire  oppose  this  Out- 

*  In  1665  the  plague  broke  out  in  London,  and  in  the  succeeding  year  the  great 
fire  took  place  ;  only  at  Christmas  1666  theatrical  performances  began  again. 

6  Farinelli,  an  eminent  Italian  soprano,  went  to  England  in  1734,  remained  there 
three  years,  sang  chiefly  at  the  Theatre  of  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields,  then  under  the  di- 
rection of  Porpora,  his  old  Master,  became  a  great  favorite,  and  made  about  .£5,000 
a  year.  As  The  Man  of  Taste  was  performed  at  a  rival  house,  Drury  Lane,  the 
bitterness  of  the  allusion  may  be  easily  understood.  The  French  Comedians  acted 


THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  139 

rage  upon  all  Reason  and  Discretion.     Yes,  My  Lord,  resentment  can  never  better 
be  shown,  nor  Indignation  more  laudably  exerted  than  on  such  an  occasion." 

The  Prologue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Gibber,  is  racy.  We  give  the  first  half  of 
it: — 

"  Wit  springs  so  slow  in  our  bleak  Northern  Soil, 
It  scarce,  at  best,  rewards  the  Planter's  Toil. 
But  now,  when  all  the  Sun-shine,  and  the  Rain, 
Are  turn'd  to  cultivate  a  Foreign  grain  ; 
When,  what  should  cherish,  preys  upon  the  Tree, 
What  generous  Fruit  can  you  expect  to  see  ? 
Our  Bard,  to  strike  the  Humour  of  the  Times, 
Imports  these  Scenes  from  kindlier  Southern  Climes ; 
Secure  his  Pains  will  with  Applause  be  crown'd, 
If  you're  as  fond  of  Foreign  sense  as     ...     sound  : 
And  since  their  Follies  have  been  bought  so  dear, 
We  hope  their  Wit  a  moderate  Price  may  bear. 
Terence,  Great  Master  1  who,  with  wond'rous  Art, 
Explor'd  the  deepest  Secrets  of  the  Heart ; 
That  best  Old  Judge  of  Manners  and  of  Men, 
First  grac'd  this  Tale  with  his  immortal  Pen.' 
Moliere,  the  Classick  of  the  Gallick  Stage, 
First  dar'd  to  modernize  the  Sacred  Page  ; 
Skilful,  the  one  thing  wanting  to  supply, 
Humour,  that  Soul  of  Comic  Poesy. 
The  Roman  Fools  were  drawn  so  nigh     .     .     .     the  Pit 
Might  take  'em  now  for    Modern  Men  of  Wit. 
But  Moliere  painted  with  a  bolder  Hand, 
And  mark'd  his  Oafs  with  the  Fool's-Cap  and  Band  : 
To  ev'ry  Vice  he  tagged  the  just  Reproach, 
Shew'd  Worth  on  Foot,  and  Rascals  in  a  Coach." 

Mrs.  Aphra  Behn,  a  voluminous  writer  of  plays,  novels,  poems,  and 
letters,  all  of  a  lively  and  amorous  turn,  was  the  widow  of  a  Dutch  mer- 
chant, and  partly  occupied  the  time  not  engaged  in  literary  pursuits  in  po- 
litical or  gallant  intrigues.  Her  comedies  are  her  best  works,  and  al- 
though some  of  her  scenes  are  often  indecent,  and  not  a  few  of  her  ex- 
pressions indelicate,  yet  her  plots  are  always  lively  and  well  sustained  and 
her  dialogues  very  witty.  The  date  of  her  birth  is  unknown,  but  she 
died  on  the  i6th  of  April,  1689,  and  was  buried  in  the  cloisters  of  West- 
minster Abbey. 

In  1682,  was  performed,  at  the  Theatre,  Dorset  Garden,  her  play,  The 
False  Count,  or  a  New  Way  to  Play  an  Old  Game.  The  prologue  attacks 
the  Whigs  most  furiously,  and  the  epilogue,  spoken  by  Mrs.  Barry,  is  very 
indecent.  The  plot  of  this  play,  or  rather  farce,  is  very  improbable,  and 
the  language  is  more  than  free.  Julia,  in  love  with  Don  Carlos,  after- 
wards Governor  of  Cadiz,  was  forced  by  her  father  to  marry  Francisco, 
a  rich  old  man,  formerly  a  leather-seller;  the  latter  going  with  his 
family  to  sea  on  a  party  of  pleasure,  are  taken  prisoners  by  Carlos 
and  his  servants,  disguised  as  Turks.  They  are  carried  to  a  country 
house,  and  made  to  believe  they  are  in  the  Grand  Turk's  seraglio. 
There  is  also  an  underplot,  in  which  Isabella,  Francisco's  proud  and 
vain  daughter,  is  courted  by  Guilion,  a  supposed  Count,  but  in  reality 

at  the  Haymarket  from  November  22,  1734  to  June  1733,  hence  the  allusion  to  a 
French  Harlequin. 

*  The  plot  of  The  Man  of  Taste,  as  we  have  said  before,  was  partly  borrowed 
from  Moliere's  School  for  Husbands,  partly  from  the  Pretentious  Young  Ladies, 
and  other  of  his  plays.  The  first-mentioned  French  comedy  owes  part  of  its  plot 
to  Terence's  Adelphi,  hence  the  allusion. 


14.0  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES. 

a  chimney-sweep,  whose  hand  she  accepts.  In  the  end  everything  is 
discovered,  and  Guilion  comes  to  claim  his  wife  in  his  sooty  clothes. 

Thomas  Shadwell,  a  dramatist,  and  the  poet-laureate  of  William  III.. 
who  has  been  flagellated  by  Dryden  in  his  MacFlecknoe  and  in  the 
second  part  of  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  and  been  mentioned  with  con- 
tempt by  Pope  in  his  Dunciad,  took  from  the  Precieuses  Ridicules  Mas- 
carille  and  Jodelet,  and  freely  imitated  and  united  them  in  the  character 
of  La  Roch,  a  sham  Count,  in  his  Bury-Fair,  acted  by  His  Majesty's 
servants  in  1689.  This  play,  dedicated  to  Charles,  Earl  of  Dorset  and 
Middlesex,  was  written  "  during  eight  months'  painful  sickness."  In  the 
Prologue  Shadwell  states : 

That  every  Part  is  Fiction  in  his  Play  ; 
Particular  Reflections  there  are  none  ; 
Our  Poet  knows  not  one  in  all  your  Town. 
If  any  has  so  very  little  Wit, 
To  think  a  Fop's  Dress  can  his  Person  fit, 
E'en  let  him  take  it,  and  make  much  of  it. 

Whilst,  in  The  Pretentious  Young  Ladies,  Mascarille  and  Jodelet  impose 
upon  two  provincial  girls,  in  Bury- Fair,  La  Roch,  "  a  French  peruke- 
maker,"  succeeds  in  deceiving  Mrs.  Fan  last  and  Mrs.  Gertrude  under 
the  name  of  Count  de  Cheveux.  The  Count  is  very  amusing,  and  though 
a  coward  to  boot,  pretends  to  be  a  great  warrior.  His  description  of  war 
is  characteristic  ;  he  states  that  "  de  great  Heros  always  burne  and  killft 
de  Man,  Woman,  and  Shilde  for  deir  Glory." 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 
LA  GRANGE, 


E>  ) 

>  repulsed 

r-i    J 


,  .  ,r Lovers. 

Du  CROISY 

GORGIBUS, '  a  good  citizen. 

THE  MARQUIS  DE  MASCARILLE,  valet  to  La  Grange* 

THE  VISCOUNT  JODELET,  valet  to  Du  Croisy. 

ALMANZOR,  footman  to  the  pretentious  ladies. 

Two  CHAIRMEN. 

MUSICIANS. 

MADELON,  daughter  to  Gorgibus,  ) 

>•  The  pretentious  young  ladies. 

CATHOS,  niece  to  Gorgibus,  ) 

MAROTTE,  maid  to  the  pretentious  young  ladies. 

LUCILE.       ) 

>•  two  female  neighbours. 
CELIMENE.  j 

SCENE — GORGIBUS'  HOUSE,  PARIS. 


*  Gorgibus  was  the  name  of  certain  characters  in  old  comedies.  The 
actor,  L'Epy,  who  played  this  part,  had  a  very  loud  voice ;  hence 
Moliere  gave  him  probably  this  name. 

8  Mascarille  was  played  by  Moliere,  and  has  a  personality  quite  distinct 
from  the  servant  of  the  same  name  in  the  Blunderer  and  the  Love-Tiff. 
The  dress  in  which  he  acted  this  part,  has  not  been  mentioned  in  the  in- 
ventory taken  after  his  death,  but  in  a  pamphlet,  published  in  1660,  he  is 
described  as  wearing  an  enormous  wig,  a  very  small  hat,  a  ruff  like  a 
morning  gown,  rolls  in  which  children  could  play  hide-and-seek,  tassels 
like  cornucopise,  ribbons  that  covered  his  shoes,  with  heels  half  a  foot  in 
height. 


THE  PRETENTIOUS  YOUNG  LADIES. 

(LES PRECIEUSES  RIDICULES.} 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — LA  GRANGE,  Du  CROISY. 

Du.  CR.  Mr.  La  Grange. 

LA.  GR.  What? 

Du.  CR.  Look  at  me  for  a  moment  without  laughing. 

LA.  GR.  Well? 

Du.  CR.  What  do  you  say  of  our  visit  ?  Are  you  quite 
pleased  with  it? 

LA.  GR.  Do  you  think  either  of  us  has  any  reason  to 
be  so? 

Du.  CR.  Not  at  all,  to  say  the  truth. 

LA.  GR.  As  for  me,  I  must  acknowledge  I  was  quite 
shocked  at  it.  Pray  now,  did  ever  anybody  see  a  couple 
of  country  wenches  giving  themselves  more  ridiculous 
airs,  or  two  men  treated  with  more  contempt  than  we 
were  ?  They  could  hardly  make  up  their  mind  to  order 
chairs  for  us.  I  never  saw  such  whispering  as  there  was 
between  them ;  such  yawning,  such  rubbing  of  the  eyes, 
and  asking  so  often  what  o'clock  it  was.  Did  they  answer 
anything  else  but  "yes,"  or  "no,"  to  what  we  said  to 
them  ?  In  short,  do  you  not  agree  with  me  that  if  we  had 
been  the  meanest  persons  in  the  world,  we  could  not  have 
been  treated  worse? 

Du.  CR.  You  seem  to  take  it  greatly  to  heart. 

LA.  GR.  No  doubt  I  do;  so  much  so,  that  I  am  re- 
solved to  be  revenged  on  them  for  their  impertinence.  I 
know  well  enough  why  they  despise  us.  Affectation  has 


144  THE  PRETENTIOUS  YOUNG  LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

not  alone  infected  Paris,  but  has  also  spread  into  the 
country,  and  our  ridiculous  damsels  have  sucked  in  their 
share  of  it.  In  a  word,  they  are  a  strange  medley  of  co- 
quetry and  affectation.  I  plainly  see  what  kind  of  persons 
will  be  well  received  by  them ;  if  you  will  take  my  ad- 
vice, we  will  play  them  such  a  trick  as  shall  show  them 
their  folly,  and  teach  them  to  distinguish  a  little  better 
the  people  they  have  to  deal  with. 

Du.  CR.  How  can  you  do  this  ? 

LA.  GR.  I  have  a  certain  valet,  named  Mascarille,  who, 
in  the  opinion  of  many  people,  passes  for  a  kind  of  wit ; 
for  nothing  now-a-days  is  easier  than  to  acquire  such  a 
reputation.  He  is  an  extraordinary  fellow,  who  has  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  ape  a  person  of  quality.  He  usually 
prides  himself  on  his  gallantry  and  his  poetry,  and  de- 
spises so  much  the  other  servants  that  he  calls  them  brutes. 

Du.  CR.  Well,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  him  ? 

LA.  GR.  What  do  I  mean  to  do  with  him  ?     He  must 

.  .  .  but  first,  let  us  be  gone. 

SCENE  II. — GORGIBUS,  Du  CROISY,  LA  GRANGE. 

GORG.  Well,  gentlemen,  you  have  seen  my  niece  and 
my  daughter.  How  are  matters  going  on  ?  What  is  the 
result  of  your  visit  ? 

LA.  GR.  They  will  tell  you  this  better  than  we  can.  All 
we  say  is  that  we  thank  you  for  the  favour  you  have  done 
us,  and  remain  your  most  humble  servants. 

Du.  CR.^  Your  most  humble  servants. 

GORG.  (Alone).  Hoity-toity  !  Methinks  they  go  away 
dissatisfied.  What  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  must 
find  it  out.  Within  there  ! 

SCENE  III. — GORGIBUS,  MAROTTE. 

MAR.   Did  you  call,  sir  ? 
GORG.  Where  are  your  mistresses  ? 
MAR.  In  their  room. 
GORG.  What  are  they  doing  there  ? 
MAR.  Making  lip  salve. 

GORG.  There  is  no  end  of  their  salves.  Bid  them  come 
down.  (Alone).  These  hussies  with  their  salves  have,  I 


SCENE  iv. J  THE   PRETENTIOUS    YOUNG   LADIES.  145 

think,  a  mind  to  ruin  me.  Everywhere  in  the  house  I  see 
nothing  but  whites  of  eggs,  lac  virginal,  and  a  thousand 
other  fooleries  I  am  not  acquainted  with.  Since  we  have 
been  here  they  have  employed  the  lard  of  a  dozen  hogs  at 
least,  and  four  servants  might  live  every  day  on  the  sheep's 
trotters  they  use. 


SCENE  IV. — MADELON,  CATHOS,   GORGIBUS. 

GORG.  Truly  there  is  great  need  to  spend  so  much  money 
to  grease  your  faces.  Pray  tell  me,  what  have  you  done 
to  those  gentlemen,  that  I  saw  them  go  away  with  so  much 
coldness.  Did  I  not  order  you  to  receive  them  as  persons 
whom  I  intended  for  your  husbands  ? 

MAD.  Dear  father,  what  consideration  do  you  wish  us 
to  entertain  for  the  irregular  behaviour  of  these  people  ? 

CAT.  How  can  a  woman  of  ever  so  little  understanding, 
uncle,  reconcile  herself  to  such  individuals  ? 

GORG.  What  fault  have  you  to  find  with  them  ? 

MAD.  Their's  is  fine  gallantry,  indeed.  Would  you 
believe  it  ?  they  began  with  proposing  marriage  to  us. 

GORG.  What  would  you  have  them  begin  with — with 
a  proposal  to  keep  you  as  mistresses  ?  Is  not  their  proposal 
a  compliment  to  both  of  you,  as  well  as  to  me  ?  Can  any- 
thing be  more  polite  than  this  ?  And  do  they  not  prove 
the  honesty  of  their  intentions  by  wishing  to  enter  these 
holy  bonds  ? 

MAD.  O,  father  !  Nothing  can  be  more  vulgar  than 
what  you  have  just  said.  I  am  ashamed  to  hear  you  talk 
in  such  a  manner ;  you  should  take  some  lessons  in  the 
elegant  way  of  looking  at  things. 

GORG.  I  care  neither  for  elegant  ways  nor  songs.9  I 
tell  you  marriage  is  a  holy  and  sacred  affair ;  to  begin  with 
that  is  to  act  like  honest  people. 

MAD.  Good  Heavens  !  If  everybody  was  like  you  a 
love-story  would  soon  be  over.  What  a  fine  thing  it  would 


9  The  original  has  a  play  on  words.  Madelon  says,  in  addressing  her 
father,  vous  devriez  un  peu  vous  faire  apprendre  le  bel  air  des  choses,  upon 
which  he  answers,  je  n'ai  que  faire  ni  d'air  nt  de  chanson.  Air  means 
tune  as  well  as  look,  appearance. 

VOL.  I.  K 


146  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  I. 

have  been  'if  Cyrus  had  immediately  espoused  Mandane, 
and  if  Aronce  had  been  married  all  at  once  to  Clelie.10. 

GORG.  What  is  she  jabbering  about  ? 

MAD.  Here  is  my  cousin,  father,  who  will  tell  as  well  as 
I  that  matrimony  ought  never  to  happen  till  after  other 
adventures.  A  lover,  to  be  agreeable,  must  understand 
how  to  utter  fine  sentiments,  to  breathe  soft,  tender,  and 
passionate  vows;  his  courtship  must  be  according  to  the 
rules.  In  the  first  place,  he  should  behold  the  fair  one  of 
whom  he  becomes  enamoured  either  at  a  place  of  wor- 
ship,11 or  when  out  walking,  or  at  some  public  ceremony  ; 
or  else  he  should  be  introduced  to  her  by  a  relative  or 
a  friend,  as  if  by  chance,  and  when  he  leaves  her  he  should 
appear  in  a  pensive  and  melancholy  mood.  For  some 
time  he  should  conceal  his  passion  from  the  object  of  his 
love,  but  pay  her  several  visits,  in  every  one  of  which  he 
ought  to  introduce  some  gallant  subject  to  exercise  the 
wits  of  all  the  company.  When  the  day  comes  to  make 
his  declarations — which  generally  should  be  contrived  in 
some  shady  garden-walk  while  the  company  is  at  a  dis- 
tance— it  should  be  quickly  followed  by  anger,  which  is 
shown  by  our  blushing,  and  which,  for  a  while,  banishes 
the  lover  from  our  presence.  He  finds  afterwards  means 
to  pacify  us,  to  accustom  us  gradually  to  hear  him  depict 
his  passion,  and  to  draw  from  us  that  confession  which 
causes  us  so  much  pain.  After  that  come  the  adventures, 
the  rivals  who  thwart  mutual  inclination,  the  persecutions 
of  fathers,  the  jealousies  arising  without  any  foundation, 
complaints,  despair,  running  away  with,  and  its  conse- 
quences. Thus  things  are  carried  on  in  fashionable  life, 
and  veritable  gallantry  cannot  dispense  with  these  forms. 
But  to  come  out  point-blank  with  a  proposal  of  marriage, 
— to  make  no  love  but  with  a  marriage-contract,  and 
begin  a  novel  at  the  wrong  end  !  Once  more,  father, 
nothing  can  be  more  tradesmanlike,  and  the  mere  thought 
of  it  makes  me  sick  at  heart. 


10  Cyrus  and  Mandane  are  the  two  principal  charactersof  Mademoiselle 
de  Scudery's  novel  Artamene,  on  the  Grand  Cyrus ;  Aronce  and  Clelie  of 
the  novel  Clelie,  by  the  same  author. 

11  See  note  15,  page  33. 


SCENK  iv.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  147 

GORG.  What  deuced  nonsense  is  all  this?  That  is  high- 
flown  language  with  a  vengeance  ! 

CAT.  Indeed,  uncle,  my  cousin  hits  the  nail  on  the 
head.  How  can  we  receive  kindly  those  who  are  so  awk- 
ward in  gallantry.  I  could  lay  a  wager  they  have  not 
even  seen  a  map  of  the  country  of  Tenderness,  and  that 
Love-letters,  Trifling  attentions,  Polite  epistles,  and  Sprightly 
verses,  are  regions  to  them  unknown.12  Do  you  not  see 
that  the  whole  person  shews  it,  and  that  their  external  ap- 
pearance is  not  such  as  to  give  at  first  sight  a  good  opinion 
of  them.  To  come  and  pay  a  visit  to  the  object  of  their 
love  with  a  leg  without  any  ornaments,  a  hat  without  any 
feathers,  a  head  with  its  locks  not  artistically  arranged, 
and  a  coat  that  suffers  from  a  paucity  of  ribbons.  Heav- 
ens !  what  lovers  are  these !  what  stinginess  in  dress ! 
what  barrenness  of  conversation  !  It  is  not  to  be  allowed ; 
it  is  not  to  be  borne.  I  also  observed  that  their  ruffs13  were 
not  made  by  the  fashionable  milliner,  and  that  their 
breeches  were  not  big  enough  by  more  than  half-a-foot. 

GORG.  I  think  they  are  both  mad,  nor  can  I  understand 
anything  of  this  gibberish.  Cathos,  and  you  Madelon 

MAD.  Pray,  father,  do  not  use  those  strange  names,  and 
call  us  by  some  other. 

GORG.  What  do  you  mean  by  those  strange  names  ?  Are 
they  not  the  names  your  godfathers  and  godmothers  gave 
you? 

MAD.  Good  Heavens  !  how  vulgar  you  are  !  I  confess  I 
wonder  you  could  possibly  be  the  father  of  such  an  intel- 
ligent girl  as  I  am.  Did  ever  anybody  in  genteel  style 
talk  of  Cathos  or  of  Madelon  ?  And  must  you  not  admit 
that  either  of  these  names  would  be  sufficient  to  disgrace 
the  finest  novel  in  the  world  ? 

11  The  map  of  the  country  of  Tenderness  (la  carte  de  Tendre)  is  tound 
in  the  first  part  of  Clelie  (see  note  2,  page  146) ;  Love-letter  (Billet- 
doux);  Polite  epistle  (Billet  galant) ;  Trifling  attentions  (Petit  Soins) ; 
Sprightly  verses  (Jolis  vers),  are  the  names  of  villages  to  be  found  in  the 
map,  which  is  a  curiosity  in  its  way. 

1JThe  ruff  (rabaf)  was  at  first  only  the  shirt-collar  pulled  out  and  worn 
outside  the  coat.  Later  ruffs  were  worn,  which  were  not  fastened  to  the 
shirt,  sometimes  adorned  with  lace,  and  tied  in  front  with  two  strings  with 
tassels.  The  rabat  was  very  fashionable  during  the  youthful  years  of  Louis 
XIV. 


148  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG  LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

CAT.  It  is  true,  uncle,  an  ear  rather  delicate  suffers  ex- 
tremely at  hearing  these  words  pronounced,  and  the  name 
of  Polixena,  which  my  cousin  has  chosen,  and  that  of 
Amintha,  which  I  took,  possesses  a  charm,  which  you  must 
needs  acknowledge.14 

GORG.  Hearken ;  one  word  will  suffice.  I  do  not  allow 
you  to  take  any  other  names  than  those  that  were  given 
you  by  your  godfathers  and  godmothers ;  and  as  for  those 
gentlemen  we  are  speaking  about,  I  know  their  families 
and  fortunes,  and  am  determined  they  shall  be  your 
husbands.  I  am  tired  of  having  you  upon  my  hands. 
Looking  after  a  couple  of  girls  is  rather  too  weighty  a 
charge  for  a  man  of  my  years. 

CAT.  As  for  me,  uncle,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  think 
marriage  a  very  shocking  business.  How  can  one  endure 
the  thought  of  lying  by  the  side  of  a  man,  who  is  really 
naked  ? 

MAP.  Give  us  leave  to  take  breath  for  a  short  time 
among  the  fashionable  world  of  Paris,  where  we  are  but 
just  arrived.  Allow  us  to  prepare  at  our  leisure  the 
groundwork  of  our  novel,  and  do  not  hurry  on  the  con- 
clusion too  abruptly. 

GORG.  (Aside],  I  cannot  doubt  it  any  longer ;  they  are 
completely  mad.  (Aloud).  Once  more,  I  tell  you,  I  under- 
stand nothing  of  all  this  gibberish ;  I  will  be  master,  and 
to  cut  short  all  kinds  of  arguments,  either  you  shall  both 
be  married  shortly,  or,  upon  my  word,  you  shall  be  nuns; 
that  I  swear.15 

SCENE  VI. — CATHOS,  MADELON. 

CAT.  Good  Heavens,  my  dear,  how  deeply  is  your 
father  still  immersed  in  material  things  !  how  dense  is  his 
understanding,  and  what  gloom  overcasts  his  soul ! 

MAD.  What  can  I  do,  my  dear?     I  am  ashamed  of  him. 

14  The  frecieuses  often  changed  their  names  into  more  poetical  and  ro- 
mantic appellations.    The  Marquise  de  Rambouillet,  whose  real  name 
was  Catherine,  was  known  under  the  anagram  of  Arthenice. 

15  This  scene  is  the  mere  outline  of  the  well  known  quarrel  between 
Chrysale,  Philaminte,  and  Belinda  in  the  "  Femmes  Savantes"  (see  vol. 
iii.)  but  a  husband  trembling  before  his  wife,  and  only  daring  to  show  his 
temper  to  his  sister,  is  a  much  more  tempting  subject  for  a  dramatic  writer 
than  a  man  addressing  in  a  firm  tone  his  daughter  and  niece. 


SCENE  VHI.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG    LADIES.  149 

lean  hardly  persuade  myself  I  am  indeed  his  daughter; 
I  believe  that  an  accident,  some  time  or  other,  will  dis- 
cover me  to  be  of  a  more  illustrious  descent. 

CAT.  I  believe  it ;  really,  it  is  very  likely ;  as  for  me, 
when  I  consider  myself  .  .  . 

SCENE  VII. — CATHOS,  MADELON,  MAROTTE. 

MAR.  Here  is  a  footman  asks  if  you  are  at  home,  and 
says  his  master  is  coming  to  see  you. 

MAD.  Learn,  you  dunce,  to  express  yourself  a  little  less 
vulgarly.  Say,  here  is  a  necessary  evil  inquiring  if  it  is 
commodious  for  you  to  become  visible.16 

MAR.  I  do  not  understand  Latin,  and  have  not  learned 
philosophy  out  of  Cyrus,17  as  you  have  done. 

MAD.  Impertinent  creature  !  How  can  this  be  borne  ! 
And  who  is  this  footman's  master? 

MAR.  He  told  me   it  was  the  Marquis  de  Mascarille. 

MAD.  Ah,  my  dear  !  A  marquis  !  a  marquis  !  Well,  go 
and  tell  him  we  are  visible.  This  is  certainly  some  wit 
who  has  heard  of  us. 

CAT.  Undoubtedly,  my  dear. 

MAD.  We  had  better  receive  him  here  in  this  parlour 
than  in  our  room.  Let  us  at  least  arrange  our  hair  a  little 
and  maintain  our  reputation.  Come  in  quickly,  and  reach 
us  the  Counsellor  of  the  Graces. 

MAR.  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a 
beast  that  is ;  you  must  speak  like  a  Christian  if  you  would 
have  me  know  your  meaning. 

CAT.  Bring  us  the  looking-glass,  you  blockhead!  and 
take  care  not  to  contaminate  its  brightness  by  the  commu- 
nication of  your  image. 

SCENE  VEIL — MASCARILLE,  Two  CHAIRMEN. 

MASC.  Stop,  chairman,  stop.  Easy  does  it !  Easy,  easy ! 
I  think  these  boobies  intend  to  break  me  to  pieces  by 
bumping  me  against  the  walls  and  the  pavement. 

16  All  these  and  similar  sentences  were  really  employed  by  the 
precieuses. 

1T  Artamene,  ou  le  Grand  Cyrus,  (1649-1653)  a  novel  in  ten  volumes  by 
Madle.  de  Scud^ry. 


150  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

1  CHAIR.  Ay,  marry,  because  the  gate  is  narrow  and  you 
would  make  us  bring  you  in  here. 

MASC.  To  be  sure,  you  rascals !  Would  you  have  me 
expose  the  fulness  of  my  plumes  to  the  inclemency  of  the 
rainy  season,  and  let  the  mud  receive  the  impression  of  my 
shoes  ?  Begone  ;  take  away  your  chair. 

2  CHAIR.  Then  please  to  pay  us,  sir. 
MASC.  What? 

2  CHAIR.  Sir,  please  to  give  us  our  money,  I  say. 

MASC.  {Giving  him  a  box  on  the  ear).  Whatf  scoundrel, 
to  ask  money  from  a  person  of  my  rank ! 

2  CHAIR.  Is  this  the  way  poor  people  are  to  be  paid  ? 
Will  your  rank  get  us  a  dinner  ? 

MASC.  Ha,  ha !  I  shall  teach  you  to  keep  your  right 
place.  Those  low  fellows  dare  to  make  fun  of  me ! 

i  CHAIR.  {Taking  up  one  of  the  poles  of  his  chair}.  Come, 
pay  us  quickly. 

MASC.  What? 

i  CHAIR.  I  mean  to  have  my  money  at  once. 

MASC.  That  is  a  sensible  fellow. 

i  CHAIR.  Make  haste,  then. 

MASC.  Ay,  you  speak  properly,  but  the  other  is  a  scoun- 
drel, who  does  not  know  what  he  says.  There,  are  you 
satisfied  ? 

i  CHAIR.  No,  I  am  not  satisfied;  you  boxed  my  friend's 
ears,  and  .  .  .  (holding  up  his  pole'). 

MASC.  Gently;  there  is  something  for  the  box  on  the 
ear.  People  may  get  anything  from  me  when  they  go 
about  it  in  the  right  way.  Go  now,  but  come  and  fetch 
me  by  and  by  to  carry  me  to  the  Louvre  to  the  petti 
coucher.™ 

SCENE  IX. — MAROTTE,  MASCARILLE. 

MAR.  Sir,  my  mistresses  will  come  immediately. 

18  Louis  XIV.  and  several  other  Kings  of  France,  received  their  cour- 
tiers when  rising  or  going  to  bed.  This  was  called  lever  and  coucher.  The 
lever  as  well  as  the  coucher  was  divided  into  petit  and  grand.  All  per- 
sons received  at  court  had  a  right  to  come  to  the  grand  lever  and  coucher, 
but  only  certain  noblemen  «of  high  rank  and  the  princes  of  the  royal  blood 
could  remain  at  the  petit  lever  and  coucher,  which  was  the  time  between 
the  king  putting  on  either  a  day  or  night  shirt,  and  the  time  he  went  to 
bed  or  was  fully  dressed.  The  highest  person  of  rank  always  claimed 
the  right  of  handing  to  the  king  his  shirt. 


SCENE  x.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  Ijl 

MASC.  Let  them  not  hurry  themselves;  I  am  very  com- 
fortable here,  and  can  wait. 
MAR.   Here  they  come. 

SCENE  X. — MADELON,  CATHOS,  MASCARILLE,  ALMAZOR. 

MASC.  (After  having  bowed  to  them).  Ladies,  no  doubt 
you  will  be  surprised  at  the  boldness  of  my  visit,  but  your 
reputation  has  drawn  this  disagreeable  affair  upon  you ; 
merit  has  for  me  such  potent  charms,  that  I  run  every- 
where after  it. 

MAD.   If  you  pursue  merit  you  should  not  come  to  us. 

CAT.  If  you  find  merit  amongst  us,  you  must  have 
brought  it  hither  yourself. 

MASC.  Ah  !  I  protest  against  these  words.  When  fame 
mentioned  your  deserts  it  spoke  the  truth,  and  you  are 
going  to  make  pic,  repic,  and  capot19  all  the  gallants  from 
Paris. 

MAD.  Your  complaisance  goes  a  little  too  far  in  the 
liberality  of  its  praises,  and  my  cousin  and  I  must  take 
care  not  to  give  too  much  credit  to  your  sweet  adulation. 

CAT.   My  dear,  we  should  call  for  chairs. 

MAD.   Almanzor! 

ALM.   Madam. 

MAD.  Convey  to  us  hither,  instantly,  the  conveniences 
of  conversation. 

MASC.   But  am  I  safe  here  ?  (Exit  Almanzor. 

CAT.   What  is  it  you  fear? 

MASC.  Some  larceny  of  my  heart;  some  massacre  of 
liberty.  I  behold  here  a  pair  of  eyes  that  seem  to  be  very 
naughty  boys,  that  insult  liberty,  and  use  a  heart  most 
barbarously.  Why  the  deuce  do  they  put  themselves  on 
their  guard,  in  order  to  kill  any  one  who  comes  near 
them?  Upon  my  word  !  I  mistrust  them;  I  shall  either 
scamper  away,  or  expect  very  good  security  that  they  do 
me  no  mischief. 

MAD.   My  dear,  what  a  charming  facetiousness  he  has ! 


19  Dryden,  in  his  Sir  Martin  Mar-all  (Act  i.  sc.  i),  makes  Sir  Martin 
say  :  "  If  I  go  to  picquet  ...  he  will  picque  and  repicque,  and  capot  me 
twenty  times  together."  I  believe  that  these  terms  in  Moliere's  and  Dry- 
den's  times  had  a  different  meaning  from  what  they  have  now. 


152  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

CAT.  I  see,  indeed,  he  is  an  Amilcar.20 

MAD.  Fear  nothing,  our  eyes  have  no  wicked  designs, 
and  your  heart  may  rest  in  peace,  fully  assured  of  their 
innocence. 

CAT.  But,  pray,  Sir,  be  not  inexorable  to  the  easy 
chair,  which,  for  this  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  has  held  out 
its  arms  towards  you;  yield  to  its  desire  of  embracing  you. 

MASC.  {After  having  combed  himself?1  and  adjusted  the 
rolls  of  his  stockings)™  Well,  ladies,  and  what  do  you 
think  of  Paris? 

MAD.  Alas!  what  can  we  think  of  it?  It  would  be 
the  very  antipodes  of  reason  not  to  confess  that  Paris  is 
the  grand  cabinet  of  marvels,  the  centre  of  good  taste,  wit, 
and  gallantry. 

MASC.  As  for  me,  I  maintain  that,  out  of  Paris,  there 
is  no  salvation  for  the  polite  world. 

CAT.  Most  assuredly. 

MASC.  Paris  is-  somewhat  muddy;  but  then  we  have 
sedan  chairs. 

MAD.  To  be  sure ;  a  sedan  chair  is  a  wonderful  pro- 
tection against  the  insults  of  mud  and  bad  weather. 

MASC.  I  am  sure  you  receive  many  visits.  What  great 
wit  belongs  to  your  company? 

MAD.  Alas !  we  are  not  yet  known,  but  we  are  in  the 
way  of  being  so ;  for  a  lady  of  our  acquaintance  has  pro- 
mised us  to  bring  all  the  gentlemen  who  have  written  for 
the  Miscellanies  of  Select  Poetry.83 

CAT.  And  certain  others,  whom,  we  have  been  told, 
are  likewise  the  sovereign  arbiters  of  all  that  is  handsome. 

MASC.  I  can  manage  this  for  you  better  than  any  one ; 

20  Amilcar  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  novel  Clelie,  who  wishes  to  be 
thought  sprightly. 

J1  It  was  at  that  time  the  custom  for  men  of  rank  to  comb  their  hair  or 
periwigs  in  public. 

w  The  rolls  (canons)  were  large  round  pieces  of  linen,  often  adorned 
with  lace  or  ribbons,  and  which  were  fastened  below  the  breeches,  just 
under  the  knee. 

23  Moliere  probably  alludes  to  a  Miscellany  of  Select  Poetry,  published 
in  1653,  by  de  Sercy,  under  the  title  of  Poesies  choisies  de  M.  M.  Corneille 
Benserade,  de  Scudery,  Boisrobert,  Sarrazin,  Desmarets,  Baraud,  Saint- 
Laurent,  Colletet,  Lamesnardiere,  Montreuil,  Viguier,  Chevreau,  Malle- 
ville,  Tristan,  Testu,  Maucroy,  de  Prade,  Girard  et  de  L'Age.  A  great 
number  of  such  miscellanies  appeared  in  France,  and  in  England  also, 
about  that  time. 


SCENE  x.J  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG    LADIES.  153 

they  all  visit  me ;  and  I  may  say  that  I  never  rise  without 
having  half-a-dozen  wits  at  my  levee. 

MAD.  Good  Heavens !  you  will  place  us  under  the 
greatest  obligation  if  you  will  do  us  the  kindness;  for,  in 
short,  we  must  make  the  acquaintance  of  all  those  gentle- 
men if  we  wish  to  belong  to  the  fashion.  They  are  the 
persons  who  can  make  or  unmake  a  reputation  at  Paris ; 
you  know  that  there  are  some,  whose  visits  alone  are  suffi- 
cient to  start  the  report  that  you  are  a  Connaisseuse, 
though  there  should  be  no  other  reason  for  it.  As  for  me, 
what  I  value  particularly  is,  that  by  means  of  these  inge- 
nious visits,  we  learn  a  hundred  things  which  we  ought  ne- 
cessarily to  know,  and  which  are  the  quintessence  of  wit. 
Through  them  we  hear  the  scandal  of  the  day,  or  whatever 
niceties  are  going  on  in  prose  or  verse.  We  know,  at  the 
right  time,  that  Mr.  So-and-so  has  written  the  finest  piece 
in  the  world  on  such  a  subject ;  that  Mrs.  So-and-so  has 
adapted  words  to  such  a  tune ;  that  a  certain  gentleman 
has  written  a  madrigal  upon  a  favour  shown  to  him ;  an- 
other stanzas  upon  a  fair  one  who  betrayed  him;  Mr. 
Such-a-one  wrote  a  couplet  of  six  lines  yesterday  evening 
to  Miss  Such-a-one,  to  which  she  returned  him  an  answer 
this  morning  at  eight  o'clock;  such  an  author  is  engaged 
on  such  a  subject;  this  writer  is  busy  with  the  third 
volume  of  his  novel ;  that  one  is  putting  his  works  to 
press.  Those  things  procure  you  consideration  in  every 
society,  and  if  people  are  ignorant  of  them,  I  would  not 
give  one  pinch  of  snuff  for  all  the  wit  they  may  have. 

CAT.  Indeed,  I  think  it  the  height  of  ridicule  for  any 
one  who  possesses  the  slightest  Claim  to  be  called  clever 
not  to  know  even  the  smallest  couplet  that  is  made  every 
day ;  as  for  me,  I  should  be  very  much  ashamed  if  any 
one  should  ask  me  my  opinion  about  something  new,  and 
I  had  not  seen  it. 

MASC.  It  is  really  a  shame  not  to  know  from  the  very 
first  all  that  is  going  on ;  but  do  not  give  yourself  any 
farther  trouble,  I  will  establish  an  academy  of  wits  at  your 
house,  and  I  give  you  my  word  that  not  a  single  line  of 
poetry  shall  be  written  in  Paris,  but  what  you  shall  be  able 
to  say  by  heart  before  anybody  else.  As  for  me,  such  as 
you  see  me,  I  amuse  myself  in  that  way  when  I  am  in  the 


I  54  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

humour,  and  you  may  find  handed  about  in  the  fashiona- 
ble assemblies24  of  Paris  two  hundred  songs,  as  many 
sonnets,  four  hundred  epigrams,  and  more  than  a  thou- 
sand madrigals  all  made  by  me,  without  counting  riddles 
and  portraits.25 

MAD.  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  dote  upon  portraits  ; 
I  think  there  is  nothing  more  gallant. 

MASC.  Portraits  are  difficult,  and  call  for  great  wit ;  you 
shall  see  some  of  mine  that  will  not  displease  you. 

CAT.  As  for  me,  I  am  awfully  fond  of  riddles. 

MASC.  They  exercise  the  intelligence  ;  I  have  already 
written  four  of  them  this  morning,  which  I  will  give  you 
to  guess. 

MAD.  Madrigals  are  pretty  enough  when  they  are  neatly 
turned. 

MASC.  That  is  my  special  talent ;  I  am  at  present 
engaged  in  turning  the  whole  Roman  history  into  madri- 
gals. * 

MAD.  Goodness  gracious  !  that  will  certainly  be  super- 
latively fine ;  I  should  like  to  have  one  copy  at  least,  if 
you  think  of  publishing  it. 

MASC.  I  promise  you  each  a  copy,  bound  in  the  hand- 
somest manner.  It  does  not  become  a  man  of  my  rank 
to  scribble,  but  I  do  it  only  to  serve  the  publishers,  who 
are  always  bothering  me. 

MAD.  I  fancy  it  must  be  a  delightful  thing  to  see  one's 
self  in  print. 

MASC.   Undoubtedly ;  but,  by  the  by,  I  must  repeat  to 

M  In  the  original  French  the  word  is  ruelle,  which  means  literally  "  a 
small  street,"  "  a  lane,"  hence  any  narrow  passage,  hence  the  narrow 
opening  between  the  wall  and  the  bed.  The  Precieuses  at  that  time  re- 
ceived their  visitors  lying  dressed  in  a  bed,  which  was  placed  in  an  alcove 
and  upon  a  raised  platform.  Their  fashionable  friends  (alcovistes)  took 
their  places  between  the  bed  and  the  wall,  and  thus  the  name  ruelle 
came  to  be  given  to  all  fashionable  assemblies.  In  Dr.  John  Ash's  New 
and  Complete  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language,  published  in  London 
1755,  I  still  find  ruelle  denned:  "  a  little  street,  a  circle,  an  assembly  at  a 
private  house." 

25  This  kind  of  literature,  in  which  one  attempted  to  write  a  portrait  of 
one's  self  or  of  others,  was  then  very  much  in  fashion.  La  Bruyere  and 
de  Saint-Simon  in  France,  as  well  as  Dryden  and  Pope  in  England,  have 
shown  what  a  literary  portrait  may  become  in  the  hands  of  men  of  talent. 

M  Seventeen  years  after  this  play  was  performed,  Benserade  published 
les  Metamorphoses  d'  Ovide  mises  en  rondeaux. 


SCENHX.J  THE    PRETENTIOUS    YOUNG   LADIES.  155 

you  some  extempore  verses  I  made  yesterday  at  the  house 
of  a  certain  duchess,  an  acquaintance  of  mine.  I  am 
deuced  clever  at  extempore  verses. 

CAT.  Extempore  verses  are  certainly  the  very  touch- 
stone of  genius. 

MASC.  Listen  then. 
MAD.  We  are  all  ears. 
MASC.  Oh  !  oh  !  quite  withmit  heed  was  I, 
As  harmless  you  I  chanced  to  spy, 
Slily  your  eyes 
My  heart  surprise, 
Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  stop  thief  I  cry  ! 

CAT.  Good  Heavens !  this  is  carried  to  the  utmost  pitch 
of  gallantry. 

MASC.  Everything  I  do  shows  it  is  done  by  a  gentleman  ; 
there  is  nothing  of  the  pedant  about  my  effusions. 

MAD.  They  are  more  than  two  thousand  miles  removed 
from  that. 

MASC.  Did  you  observe  the  beginning,  oh!  oh?  there 
is  something  original  in  that  oh!  oh!  like  a  man  who  all 
of  a  sudden  thinks  about  something,  oh .'  oh  !  Taken  by 
surprise  as  it  were,  oh!  oh! 

MAD.  Yes,  I  think  that  oh  /  oh  !  admirable. 

MASC.  It  seems  a  mere  nothing. 

CAT.  Good  Heavens !  How  can  you  say  so  ?  It  is  one 
of  these  things  that  are  perfectly  invaluable. 

MAD.  No  doubt  on  it ;  I  would  rather  have  written  that 
oh  !  oh  !  than  an  epic  poem. 

MASC.  Egad,  you  have  good  taste. 

MAD.  Tolerably;  none  of  the  worst,  I  believe. 

MASC.  But  do  you  not  also  admire  quite  without  heed 
was  1?  quite  without  heed  was  I,  that  is,  I  did  not  pay 
attention  to  anything;  a  natural  way  of  speaking,  quite 
without  heed  was  I,  of  no  harm  thinking,  that  is,  as  I  was 
going  along,  innocently,  without  malice,  like  a  poor 
sheep,  you  I  chanced  to  spy,  that  is  to  say,  I  amused  my- 
self with  looking  at  you,  with  observing  you,  with  con- 
templating you.  Slily  your  eyes.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
think  of  that  word  slily — is  it  not  well  chosen  ? 

CAT.  Extremely  so. 


156  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

MASC.  Slily,  stealthily ;  just  like  a  cat  watching  a 
mouse — slily.' 

MAD.  Nothing  can  be  better. 

MASC.  My  heart  surprise,  that  is,  carries  it  away  from 
me,  robs  me  of  it.  Stop  thief!  stop  thief !  stop  thief ! 
Would  you  not  think  a  man  were  shouting  and  running 
after  a  thief  to  catch  him?  Stop  thief '/  stop  thief!  stop 
thief!'1'1 

MAD.  I  must  admit  the  turn  is  witty  and  sprightly. 

MASC.  I  will  sing  you  the  tune  I  made  to  it. 

CAT.  Have  you  learned  music  ? 

MASC.  I  ?     Not  at  all. 

CAT.  How  can  you  make  a  tune  then  ? 

MASC.  People  of  rank  know  everything  without  ever 
having  learned  anything. 

MAD.  His  lordship  is  quite  in  the  right,  my  dear. 

MASC.  Listen  if  you  like  the  tune :  hem,  hem,  la,  la. 
The  inclemency  of  the  season  has  greatly  injured  the  de- 
licacy of  my  voice ;  but  no  matter,  it  is  in  a  free  and  easy 
way.  (He  sings).  Oh !  Oh !  quite  without  heed  was 
I,  etc. 

CAT.  What  a  passion  there  breathes  in  this  music.  It 
is  enough  to  make  one  die  away  with  delight ! 

MAD.  There  is  something  plaintive  in  it. 

MASC.  Do  you  not  think  that  the  air  perfectly  well  ex- 
presses the  sentiment,  stop  thief,  stop  thief?  And  then  as 
if  some  one  cried  out  very  loud,  stop,  stop,  stop,  stop,  stop, 
stop  thief!  Then  all  at  once  like  a  person  out  of  breath, 
Stop  thief  ! 

MAD.  This  is  to  understand  the  perfection  of  things, 
the  grand  perfection,  the  perfection  of  perfections.  I  de- 
clare it  is  altogether  a  wonderful  performance.  I  am 
quite  enchanted  with  the  air  and  the  words. 

CAT.  I  never  yet  met  with  anything  so  excellent. 


27  The  scene  of  Mascarille  reading  his  extempore  verses  is  something 
like  Trissotin  in  Les  Femmes  savantes  (see  vol.  m.)  reading  his  sonnet 
for  the  Princess  Uranie.  But  Mascarille  comments  on  the  beauties  of  his 
verses  with  the  insolent  vanity  of  a  man  who  does  not  pretend  to  have 
even  one  atom  of  modesty ;  Trissotin,  a  professional  wit,  listens  in  silence, 
but  with  secret  pride,  to  the  ridiculous  exclamations  of  the  admirers  of  his 
genius. 


ECBNEX.J  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG    LADIES.  157 

MASC.  All  that  I  do  comes  naturally  to  me;  it  is  with- 
out study. 

MAD.  Nature  has  treated  you  like  a  very  fond  mother  ; 
you  are  her  darling  child. 

MASC.  How  do  you  pass  away  the  time,  ladies  ? 

CAT.  With  nothing  at  all. 

MAD.  Until  now  we  have  lived  in  a  terrible  dearth  of 
amusements. 

MASC.  I  am  at  your  service  to  attend  you  to  the  play, 
one  of  those  days,  if  you  will  permit  me.  Indeed,  a  new 
comedy  is  to  be  acted  which  I  should  be  very  glad  we 
might  see  together. 

MAD.   There  is  no  refusing  you  anything. 

MASC.  But  I  beg  of  you  to  applaud  it  well,  when  we 
shall  be  there;  for  I  have  promised  to  give  a  helping  hand 
to  the  piece.  The  author  called  upon  me  this  very  morn- 
ing to  beg  me  so  to  do.  It  is  the  custom  for  authors  to 
come  and  read  their  new  plays  to  people  of  rank,  that 
they  may  induce  us  to  approve  of  them  and  give  them  a 
reputation.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  if,  when  we  say  any- 
thing, the  pit  dares  contradict  us.  As  for  me,  I  am  very 
punctual  in  these  things,  and  when  I  have  made  a  promise 
to  a  poet,  I  always  cry  out  "  Bravo  "  before  the  candles 
are  lighted. 

MAD.  Do  not  say  another  word  :  Paris  is  an  admirable 
place.  A  hundred  things  happen  every  day  which  people 
in  the  country,  however  clever  they  may  be,  have  no 
idea  of. 

CAT.  Since  you  have  told  us,  we  shall  consider  it  our 
duty  to  cry  up  lustily  every  word  that  is  said. 

MASC.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  deceived,  but  you 
look  as  if  you  had  written  some  play  yourself. 

MAD.  Eh  !  there  may  be  something  in  what  you  say. 

MASC.  Ah !  upon  my  word,  we  must  see  it.  Between 
ourselves,  I  have  written  one  which  I  intend  to  have 
brought  out. 

CAT.  Ay  !  to  what  company  do  you  mean  to  give  it  ? 

MASC.  That  is  a  very  nice  question,  indeed.  To  the 
actors  of  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne ;  they  alone  can  bring 
things  into  good  repute ;  the  rest  are  ignorant  creatures 
who  recite  their  parts  just  as  people  speak  in  every-day 


158  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

life ;  they  do  not  understand  to  mouth  the  verses,  or  to 
pause  at  a  beautiful  passage ;  how  can  it  be  known  where 
the  fine  lines  are,  if  an  actor  does  not  stop  at  them,  and 
thereby  tell  you  to  applaud  heartily?28 

CAT.  Indeed  !  that  is  one  way  of  making  an  audience 
feel  the  beauties  of  any  work  ;  things  are  only  prized  when 
they  are  well  set  off. 

MASC.  What  do  you  think  of  my  top-knot,  sword-knot, 
and  rosettes  ? M  Do  you  find  them  harmonize  with  my 
coat  ? 

CAT.   Perfectly. 

MASC.  Do  you  think  the  ribbon  well  chosen  ? 

MAD.  Furiously  well.     It  is  real  Perdrigeon.30 

MASC.  What  do  you  say  of  my  rolls  ? 31 

MAD.  They  look  very  fashionable. 

MASC,  I  may  at  least  boast  that  they  are  a  quarter  of 
a  yard  wider  than  any  that  have  been  made. 

MAD.  I  must  own  I  never  saw  the  elegance  of  dress 
carried  farther. 

MASC.  Please  to  fasten  the  reflection  of  your  smelling 
faculty  upon  these  gloves. 

MAD.  They  smell  awfully  fine. 

CAT.  I  never  inhaled  a  more  delicious  perfume. 

MASC.  And  this  ?  (He  gives  them  his  powdered  wig  to 
smell}. 

MAD.  It  has  the  true  quality  odour;  it  titillates  the 
nerves  of  the  upper  region  most  deliciously. 

MASC.  You  say  nothing  of  my  feathers.  How  do  you 
like  them  ? 

CAT.  They  are  frightfully  beautiful. 

26  The  company  of  actors  at  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne  were  rivals  to  the 
troop  of  Moliere ;  it  appears,  however,  from  contemporary  authors,  that 
the  accusations  brought  by  our  author  against  them  were  well-founded. 

29  In  the  original  petite  oie  ;  this  was  first,  the  name  given  to  the  giblets 
of  a  goose,  oie  ;  next  it  came  to  mean  all  the  accessories  of  dress,  rib- 
bons, laces,  feathers,  and  other  small  ornaments.  In  one  of  the  old  transla- 
tions of  Moliere  petite  oie  is  rendered  by  "  muff,"  and   Perdrigeon   (see 
note  30),  I  suppose,  with  a  faint  idea  of  perdrix,  a  partridge,  by  "bird  of 
paradise  feathers ! !  " 

30  Perdrigeon  was  the  name  of  a.   fashionable  linen-draper  in  Paris  at 
that  time. 

31  See  note  21,  page  152.     According  to  Ash's  Dictionary,  1775,  canons, 
are  "  cannions,  a  kind  of  boot  hose,  an  ancient  dress  for  the  legs." 


SCENE  xi.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  159 

MASC.  Do  you  know  that  every  single  one  of  them  cost 
me  a  Louis-d'or?  But  it  is  my  hobby  to  have  generally 
everything  of  the  very  best. 

MAD.  I  assure  you  that  you  and  I  sympathize.  I  am 
furiously  particular  in  everything  I  wear ;  I  cannot  endure 
even  stockings,  unless  they  are  bought  at  a  fashionable 
shop.82 

MASC.  (Crying  out  suddenly).  O  !  O  !  O  !  gently. 
Damme,  ladies,  you  use  me  very  ill ;  I  have  reason  33  to 
complain  of  your  behaviour  ;  it  is  not  fair. 

CAT.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 

MASC.  What !  two  at  once  against  my  heart  !  to  attack 
me  thus  right  and  left  !  Ha  !  This  is  contrary  to  the 
law  of  nations,  the  combat  is  too  unequal,  and  I  must  cry 
out,  "Murder!  " 

CAT.   Well,  he  does  say  things  in  a  peculiar  way. 

MAD.  He  is  a  consummate  wit. 

CAT.  You  are  more  afraid  than  hurt,  and  your  heart 
cries  out  before  it  is  even  wounded. 

MASC.  The  devil  it  does  !  it  is  wounded  all  over  from 
head  to  foot. 

SCENE  XI. — CATHOS,  MADELON,  MASCARILLE,  MAROTTE. 

MAR.  Madam,  somebody  asks  to  see  you. 

MAD.  Who  ! 

MAR.  The  Viscount  de  Jodelet. 

MASC.   The  Viscount  de  Jodelet  ? 

MAR.  Yes,  sir. 

CAT.  Do  you  know  him  ? 

MASC.  He  is  my  most  intimate  friend. 

"Without  going  into  details  about  the  phraseology  of  the  precieuses,  of 
which  the  ridiculousness  has  appeared  sufficiently  in  this  scene,  it  will  be 
observed  that  they  used  adverbs,  as  "furiously,  terribly,  awfully,  extraor- 
dinarily, horribly,  greatly,"  and  many  more,  in  such  a  way  that  they  often 
appear  absurd,  as,  "  I  love  you  horribly,"  or,  "he  was  greatly  small." 
Such  a  way  of  speaking  is  not  unknown  even  at  the  present  time  in  Eng- 
land ;  we  sometimes  hear,  "  I  like  it  awfully,"  "it  is  awfully  jolly." 

88 1  employ  here  the  words  "  to  have  reason,"  because  that  verb,  in  the 
sense  of  "  to  have  a  right,  to  be  right,"  seems  to  have  been  a  courtly  ex- 
pression in  Dryden's  time.  Old  Moody  answers  to  Sir  Martin  Marall 
(Act  iii.,  Scene  3),  "You  have  reason,  sir.  There  he  is  again,  too  ;  the 
town  phrase;  a  great  compliment  I  wis  !  you  have  reason,  sir;  that  is,  you 
are-no  beast,  sir." 


l6o  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  i. 

MAD.  Shew  him  in  immediately. 

MASC.  We  have  not  seen   each  other  for  some  time ;  I 
am  delighted  to  meet  him. 
CAT.  Here  he  comes. 

SCENE  XII. — CATHOS,  MADELON,  JODELET,  MASCARILLE, 
MAROTTE,  ALMANZOR. 

MASC.  Ah,  Viscount ! 

JOD.  Ah,  Marquis  !  (Embracing  each  other'). 

MASC.  How  glad  I  am  to  meet  you  ! 

JOD.  How  happy  I  am  to  see  you  here. 

MASC.  Embrace  me  once  more,  I  pray  you.34 

MAD.  (  To  Cathos).  My  dearest,  we  begin  to  be  known ; 
people  of  fashion  find  the  way  to  our  house. 

MASC.  Ladies,  allow  me  to  introduce  this  gentleman  to 
you.  Upon  my  word,  he  deserves  the  honour  of  your 
acquaintance. 

JOD.  It  is  but  just  we  should  come  and  pay  you  what 
we  owe  ;  your  charms  demand  their  lordly  rights  from  all 
sorts  of  people. 

MAD.  You  carry  your  civilities  to  the  utmost  confines 
of  flattery. 

CAT.  This  day  ought  to  be  marked  in  our  diary  as  a 
red-letter  day. 

MAD.  (To  Almanzor).  Come,  boy,  must  you  always 
be  told  things  over  and  over  again  ?  Do  you  not  observe 
there  must  be  an  additional  chair? 

MASC.  You  must  not  be  astonished  to  see  the  Viscount 
thus  ;  he  has  but  just  recovered  from  an  illness,  which,  as 
you  perceive,  has  made  him  so  pale.35 

JOD.  The  consequence  of  continual  attendance  at  court 
and  the  fatigues  of  war. 

MASC.  Do  you  know,  ladies,  that  in  the  Viscount  you 

34  It  was  then  the   fashion   for  young  courtiers  to  embrace  each  other 
repeatedly  with  exaggerated  gestures,  uttering  all  the  while  loud  exclama- 
tions.    The  "Viscount  de  Jodelet  is  the  caricature  of  a  courtier  of  a  former 
reign;   he  is  very  old,  very  pale,  dressed  in  sombre  colours,  speaks  slowly 
and  through  the  nose.     Geoffrin,  the  actor,  who  played  this  part,  was  at 
least  seventy  years  old. 

35  Moliere  here  alludes  to   the  complexion  of  the  actor  Geoffrin.     See 
Note  i,  page  79. 


SCHNK  xil.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  l6l 

behold  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  age.  He  is  a  very  valiant 
man.3* 

JOD.  Marquis,  you  are  not  inferior  to  me ;  we  also  know 
what  you  can  do. 

MASC.  It  is  true  we  have  seen  one  another  at  work 
when  there  was  need  for  it. 

JOD.  And  in  places  where  it  was  hot. 

MASC.  (^Looking  at  Cathos  and  Made  Ion}.  Ay,  but  not 
so  hot  as  here.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

JOD.  We  became  acquainted  in  the  army;  the  first  time 
we  saw  each  other  he  commanded  a  regiment  of  horse 
aboard  the  galleys  of  Malta. 

MASC.  True,  but  for  all  that  you  were  in  the  service 
before  me;  I  remember  that  I  was  but  a  young  officer 
when  you  commanded  two  thousand  horse. 

JOD.  War  is  a  fine  thing;  but,  upon  my  word,  the  court 
does  not  properly  reward  men  of  merit  like  us. 

MASC.  That  is  the  reason  I  intend  to  hang  up  my  sword. 

CAT.  As  for  me,  I  have  a  tremendous  liking  for  gentle- 
men of  the  army.37 

MAD.  I  love  them,  too ;  but  I  like  bravery  seasoned 
with  wit. 

MASC.  Do  you  remember,  Viscount,  our  taking  that 
half-moon  from  the  enemy  at  the  siege  of  Arras?38 

JOD.  What  do  you  mean  by  a  half-moon?  It  was  a 
complete  full  moon. 

MASC.   I  believe  you  are  right. 

JOD.  Upon  my  word,  I  ought  to  remember  it  very  well. 
I  was  wounded  in  the  leg  by  a  hand-grenade,  of  which  I 
still  carry  the  marks.  Pray,  feel  it,  you  can  perceive 
what  sort  of  a  wound  it  was. 

CAT.  (Putting  her  hand  to  the  place).  The  scar  is  really 
large. 

36  In  the  original  un  brave  a  trots  polls,  literally,  "a  brave  man  with 
three  hairs."  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  moustache  and  pointed  beard  on 
the  chin,  then  called  royale.  We  have  seen  the  fashion  revived  in  our 
days  by  the  late  emperor  of  the  French,  Napoleon  III.  and  his  courtiers  ; 
of  course,  the  royale  was  then  called  imperiale. 

87  Cathos.  who  only  repeats  what  her  cousin  says,  and  has  observed 
that  Mascarille  admires  Madelon,  is  resolved  to  worship  more  particularly 
the  Viscount  de  Jodelet. 

M  Turenne  compelled  the  Prince  de  Cond6  and  the  Spanish  army  to 
raise  the  siege  of  Arras  in  1654. 

VOL.  I.  L 


1 62  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  I. 

MASC.  Give  me  your  hand  for  a  moment,  and  feel  this; 
there,  just  at  the  back  of  my  head.  Do  you  feel  it? 

MAD.  Ay,  I  feel  something. 

MASC.  A  musket  shot  which  I  received  the  last  cam- 
paign I  served  in. 

JOD.  (Unbuttoning  his  breasf).  Here  is  a  wound  which 
went  quite  through  me  at  the  attack  of  Gravelines.39 

MASC.  {Putting  his  hand  upon  the  button  of  his  breeches}. 
I  am  going  to  show  you  a  tremendous  wound. 

MAD.  There  is  no  occasion  for  it,  we  believe  it  without 
seeing  it. 

MASC.  They  are  honour's  marks,  that  show  what  a  man 
is  made  of. 

CAT.  We  have  not  the  least  doubt  of  the  valour  of  you 
both. 

MASC.  Viscount,  is  your  coach  in  waiting? 

JOD.  Why? 

MASC.  We  shall  give  these  ladies  an  airing,  and  offer 
them  a  collation. 

MAD.  We  cannot  go  out  to-day. 

MASC.  Let  us  send  for  musicians  then,  and  have  a 
dance. 

JOD.  Upon  my  word,  that  is  a  happy  thought. 

MAD.  With  all  our  hearts,  but  we  must  have  some  ad- 
ditional company. 

MASC.  So  ho !  Champagne,  Picard,  Bourguignon,  Cas- 
caret,  Basque,  La  Verdure,  Lorrain,  Provencal,  La 
Violette.40  I  wish  the  deuce  took  all  these  footmen  !  I 
do  not  think  there  is  a  gentleman  in  France  worse  served 
than  I  am  !  These  rascals  are  always  out  of  the  way. 

MAD.  Almanzor,  tell  the  servants  of  my  lord  marquis 
to  go  and  fetch  the  musicians,  and  ask  some  of  the  gentle- 
men and  ladies  hereabouts  to  come  and  people  the  soli- 
tude of  our  ball.  {Exit  Almanzor. 

MASC.  Viscount,  what  do  you  say  of  those  eyes? 

39  In  1658,  the  Marshal  de  la  Ferte  took  this  town  from  the  Spaniards. 

40  These  names,  with  the  exception  of  Cascaret,  La   Verdure  and  La 
Violette  are  those  of  natives  of  different  provinces,  and  were  often  given 

to  footmen,  according  to  the  place  where  they  were  born.  Cascaret  is 
of  Spanish  origin,  and  not  seldom  used  as  a  name  for  servants  ;  La  Ver- 
dure means,  verdure ;  La  Violette,  violet. 


SCENE  xin.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  163 

JOD.  Why,  Marquess,  what  do  you  think  of  them  your- 
self? 

MASC.  I  ?  I  say  that  our  liberty  will  have  much  diffi- 
culty to  get  away  from  here  scot  free.  At  least  mine  has 
suffered  most  violent  attacks  ;  my  heart  hangs  by  a  single 
thread. 

MAD.  How  natural  is  all  he  says !  he  gives  to  things  a 
most  agreeable  turn. 

CAT.  He  must  really  spend  a  tremendous  deal  of  wit. 

MASC.  To  show  you  that  I  am  in  earnest,  I  shall  make 
some  extempore  verses  upon  my  passion.  (Seems  to  think. 

CAT.  O  !  I  beseech  you  by  all  that  I  hold  sacred,  let  us 
hear  something  made  upon  us. 

JOD.  I  should  be  glad  to  do  so  too,  but  the  quantity 
of  blood  that  has  been  taken  from  me  lately,  has  greatly 
exhausted  my  poetic  vein. 

MASC.  Deuce  take  it !  I  always  make  the  first  verse 
well,  but  I  find  the  others  more  difficult.  Upon  my  word, 
this  is  too  short  a  time;  but  I  will  make  you  some  extem- 
pore verses  at  my  leisure,  which  you  shall  think  the  finest 
in  the  world. 

JOD.  He  is  devilish  witty. 

MAD.  He — his  wit  is  so  gallant  and  well  expressed. 

MASC.  Viscount,  tell  me,  when  did  you  see  the  Countess 
last? 

JOD.  I  have  not  paid  her  a  visit  these  three  weeks. 

MASC.  Do  you  know  that  the  duke  came  to  see  me  this 
morning;  he  would  fain  have  taken  me  into  the  country 
to  hunt  a  stag  with  him  ? 

MAD.  Here  come  our  friends. 

SCENE  XIII. — LUCILE,  CELIMENE,  CATHOS,  MADELON, 
MASCARILLE,  JODELET,  MAROTTE,  ALMANZOR,  AND 
MUSICIANS. 

MAD.  Lawk!  my  dears,  we  beg  your  pardon.  These 
gentlemen  had  a  fancy  to  put  life  into  our  heels;  we  sent 
for  you  to  fill  up  the  void  of  our  assembly. 

Luc.  We  are  certainly  much  obliged  to  you  for  doing 
so. 

MASC.  This  is  a  kind  of  extempore  ball,  ladies,  but  one 


164  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  I. 

of  these  days  we  shall  give  you  one  in  form.  Have  the 
musicians  come  ? 

ALM.  Yes,  sir,  they  are  here. 

CAT.  Come  then,  my  dears,  take  your  places. 

MASC.  {Dancing  by  himself  and  singing).  La,  la,  la,  la, 
la,  la,  la,  la. 

MAD.  What  a  very  elegant  shape  he  has. 

CAT.  He  looks  as  if  he  were  a  first-rate  dancer. 

MASC.  {Taking  out  Madelon  to  dance).  My  freedom 
will  dance  a  Couranto 41  as  well  as  my  feet.  Play  in  time, 
musicians,  in  time.  O  what  ignorant  wretches !  There  is 
no  dancing  with  them.  The  devil  take  you  all,  can  you 
not  play  in  time?  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la?  Steady, 
you  country-scrapers ! 

JOD.  {Dancing  also).  Hold,  do  not  play  so  fast.  I 
have  but  just  recovered  from  an  illness. 

SCENE  XIV. — Du  CROISY,  LA  GRANGE,  CATHOS,  MADELON, 

LUCILE,  CELIMENE,  JODELET,  MASCARILLE,  MAROTTE, 

AND  MUSICIANS. 

LA  GR.  (  With  a  stick  in  his  hand}.  Ah  !  ah  !  scoun- 
drels, what  are  you  doing  here?  We  have  been  looking 
for  you  these  three  hours.  (He  beats  Mascarille). 

MASC.  Oh !  oh !  oh !  you  did  not  tell  me  that  blows 
should  be  dealt  about. 

JOD.   (  Who  is  also  beaten).     Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 

LA  GR.  It  becomes  you  well,  you  rascal,  to  pretend  to 
be  a  man  of  rank. 

Du  CR.  This  will  teach  you  to  know  yourself. 

SCENE  XV. — CATHOS,  MADELON,  LUCILE,  CELIMENE, 
MASCARILLE,  JODELET,  MAROTTE,  AND  MUSICIANS. 

MAD.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

JOD.  It  is  a  wager. 

CAT.  What,  allow  yourselves  to  be  beaten  thus? 

MASC.  Good  Heavens !  I  did  not  wish  to  appear  to 
take  any  notice  of  it ;  because  I  am  naturally  very  vio- 
lent, and  should  have  flown  into  a  passion. 

MAD.  To  suffer  an  insult  like  this  in  our  presence  ! 

41 A  Couranto  was  a  very  grave,  Spanish  dance,  or  rather  march,  but 
in  which  the  feet  did  not  rise  from  the  ground. 


SCENE  xvi.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  165 

MASC.  It  is  nothing.  Let  us  not  leave  off.  We  have 
known  one  another  for  a  long  time,  and  among  friends  one 
ought  not  to  be  so  quickly  offended  for  such  a  trifle. 

SCENE  XVI. — Du  CROISY,  LA  GRANGE,  MADELON,  CA- 
THOS,  LUCILE,  CELIMENE,  MASCARILLE,  JODELET,  MA- 
ROTTE,  AND  MUSICIANS. 

LA  GR. — Upon  my  word,  rascals,  you  shall  not  laugh 
at  us,  I  promise  you.  Come  in,  you  there.  {Three  or 
four  men  enter). 

MAD.  What  means  this  impudence  to  come  and  disturb 
us  in  our  own  house? 

Du  CR.  What,  ladies,  shall  we  allow  our  footmen  to  be 
received  better  than  ourselves?  Shall  they  come  to  make 
love  to  you  at  our  expense,  and  even  give  a  ball  in  your 
honour  ? 

MAD.  Your  footmen  ? 

LA  GR.  Yes,  our  footmen ;  and  you  must  give  me  leave 
to  say  that  it  is  not  acting  either  handsome  or  honest  to 
spoil  them  for  us,  as  you  do. 

MAD.  O  Heaven !  what  insolence  ! 

LA  GR.  But  they  shall  not  have  the  advantage  of  our 
clothes  to  dazzle  your  eyes.  Upon  my  word,  if  you  are 
resolved  to  like  them,  it  shall  be  for  their  handsome  looks 
only.  Quick,  let  them  be  stripped  immediately. 

JOD.  Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  our  fine  clothes.** 

MASC.  The  marquisate  and  viscountship  are  at  an  end. , 

Du.  CR.  Ah !  ah !  you  knaves,  you  have  the  impudence 
to  become  our  rivals.  I  assure  you,  you  must  go  somewhere 
else  to  borrow  finery  to  make  yourselves  agreeable  to  your 
mistresses. 

LA  GR.  It  is  too  much  to  supplant  us,  and  that  with 
our  own  clothes. 

MASC.   O  fortune,  how  fickle  you  are ! 

Du  CR.  Quick,  pull  off  everything  from  them. 

LA  GR.   Make  haste  and  take  away  all  these  clothes. 

42  The  original  has  braverie  ;  brave,  and  bravery,  had  formerly  also  the 
meaning  of  showy,  gaudy,  rich,  in  English.  Fuller  in  The  Holy  State, 
bk.  ii.,  c.  18,  says:  "If  he  (the  good  yeoman)  chance  to  appear  in  clothes 
above  his  rank,  it  is  to  grace  some  great  man  with  his  service,  and  then 
he  blusheth  at  his  own  bravery.1' 


166  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  [ACT  I. 

Now,  ladies,  in  their  present  condition  you  may  continue 
your  amours  with  them  as  long  as  you  please ;  we  leave 
you  perfectly  free ;  this  gentleman  and  I  declare  solemnly 
that  we  shall  not  be  in  the  least  degree  jealous. 

SCENE  XVII. — MADELON,  CATHOS,  JODELET,  MASCARILLE, 
AND  MUSICIANS. 

CAT.  What  a  confusion  ! 
MAD.  I  am  nearly  bursting  with  vexation, 
i  Mus.  (To  Mascarille).  What  is  the  meaning  of  this? 
Who  is  to  pay  us  ? 

MASC.  Ask  my  lord  the  viscount. 

i  Mus.  (To  Jodelef).  Who  is  to  give  us  our  money  ? 

JOD.  Ask  my  lord  the  marquis. 

SCENE  XVIII. — GORGIBUS,  MADELON,  CATHOS,  JODELET, 
MASCARILLE,  AND  MUSICIANS. 

GORG.  Ah !  you  hussies,  you  have  put  us  in  a  nice 
pickle,  by  what  I  can  see ;  I  have  heard  about  your  fine 
goings  on  from  those  two  gentlemen  who  just  left. 

MAD.  Ah,  father !  they  have  played  us  a  cruel  trick. 

GORG.  Yes,  it  is  a  cruel  trick,  but  you  may  thank  your 
own  impertinence  for  it,  you  jades.  They  have  revenged 
themselves  for  the  way  you  treated  them ;  and  yet,  un- 
happy man  that  I  am,  I  must  put  up  with  the  affront. 

MAD.  Ah !  I  swear  we  will  be  revenged,  or  I  shall  die 
in  the  attempt.  And  you,  rascals,  dare  you  remain  here 
after  your  insolence  ? 

MASC.  Do  you  treat  a  marquis  in  this  manner?  This  is 
the  way  of  the  world ;  the  least  misfortune  causes  us  to  be 
slighted  by  those  who  before  caressed  us.  Come  along, 
brother,  let  us  go  and  seek  our  fortune  somewhere  else;  I 
perceive  they  love  nothing  here  but  outward  show,  and 
have  no  regard  for  worth  unadorned.  (They  both  leave. 

SCENE  XIX. — GORGIBUS,  MADELON,  CATHOS,  AND 
MUSICIANS. 

i  Mus.  Sir,  as  they  have  not  paid  us,  we  expect  you  to 
do  so,  for  it  was  in  this  house  we  played. 

GORG.  (Beating  them).  Yes,  yes,  I  shall  satisfy  you ; 
this  is  the  coin  I  will  pay  you  in.  As  for  you,  you  sluts, 


SCENE  xix.]  THE   PRETENTIOUS   YOUNG   LADIES.  167 

I  do  not  know  why  I  should  not  serve  you  in  the  same 
way ;  we  shall  become  the  common  talk  and  laughing-stock 
of  everybody ;  this  is  what  you  have  brought  upon  your- 
selves by  your  fooleries.  Out  of  my  sight  and  hide  your- 
selves, you  jades ;  go  and  hide  yourselves  forever.  {Alone}. 
And  you,  that  are  the  cause  of  their  folly,  you  stupid 
trash,  mischievous  amusements  for  idle  minds,  you  novels, 
verses,  songs,  sonnets,  and  sonatas,  the  devil  take  you  all. 


SGANARELLE;   OU,  LE  COCU  IMAGINA1RE. 

COMEDIE    EN    UN    ACTE. 


SGANARELLE: 

OR    THE    SELF-DECEIVED     HUSBAND. 
A    COMEDY    IN   ONE'ACT. 

(THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 
28xH  MAY,  1660. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


Six  months  after  the  brilliant  success  of  the  Precieuses  Ridicules,  Moliere 
brought  out  at  the  Theatre  du  Petit-Bourbon  a  new  comedy,  called 
Sg-anarelle,  ou  le  Cocu  Imaginaire,  which  I  have  translated  by  Sgana- 
relle, or  the  self-deceived  Husband.  It  has  been  said  that  Moliere  owed 
the  first  idea  of  this  piece  to  an  Italian  farce,  //  Ritratto  ovvero  Arlichino 
comuto  per  opinione,  but,  as  it  has  never  been  printed,  it  is  difficult  to  de- 
cide at  the  present  time  whether  or  not  this  be  true.  The  primary  idea 
of  the  play  is  common  to  many  commedia  dell'  arte,  whilst  Moliere  has 
also  been  inspired  by  such  old  authors  as  Noel  Du  Fail,  Rabelais,  those 
of  the  Qitinzejoyes  de  Manage,  of  the  Cent  nouvelles  Nouvelles,  and  per- 
haps others. 

The  plot  of  Sganarelle  is  ingenious  and  plausible  ;  every  trifle  becomes 
circumstantial  evidence,  and  is  received  as  conclusive  proof  both  by  the 
husband  and  wife.  The  dialogue  is  sprightly  throughout,  and  the  anxious 
desire  of  Sganarelle  to  kill  his  supposed  injurer,  whilst  his  cowardice  pre- 
vents him  from  executing  his  valorous  design,  is  extremely  ludicrous. 
The  chief  aim  of  our  author  appears  to  have  been  to  show  how  dangerous 
it  is  to  judge  with  too  much  haste,  especially  in  those  circumstances  where 
passion  may  either  augment  or  diminish  the  view  we  take  of  certain  ob- 
jects. This  truth,  animated  by  a  great  deal  of  humour  and  wit,  drew 
crowds  of  spectators  for  forty  nights,  though  the  play  was  brought  out  in 
summer  and  the  marriage  of  the  young  king  kept  the  court  from  Paris. 

The  style  is  totally  different  from  that  employed  in  the  Precieuses  Ridi- 
cules, and  is  a  real  and  very  good  specimen  of  the  style  g aulois,  adapted 
to  the  age  in  which  Molidre  lived.  He  has  often  been  blamed  for  not 
having  followed  up  his  success  of  the  Precieuses  Ridicules  by  a  comedy 
in  the  same  style,  but  Moliere  did  not  want  to  make  fresh  enemies.  It 
appears  to  have  been  a  regular  and  set  purpose  with  him  always  to  pro- 
duce something  farcical  after  a  creation  which  provoked  either  secret  or 
open  hostility,  or  even  violent  opposition. 

Sganarelle  appears  in  this  piece  for  the  first  time,  if  we  except  the 
farce,  or  rather  sketch,  of  the  Medecin  volant,  where  in  reality  nothing  is 
developed,  but  everything  is  in  mere  outline.  But  in  Sganarelle  Mo- 
liere has  created  a  character  that  is  his  own  just  as  much  as  Falstaff 
belongs  to  Shakespeare,  Sancho  Panza  to  Cervantes,  or  Panurge  to  Ra- 
belais. Whether  Sganarelle  is  a  servant,  a  husband,  the  father  of  Lu- 
ciode,  the  brother  of  Ariste,  a  guardian,  a  faggot-maker,  a  doctor,  he 

171 


172  SGANARELLE  ;   OR, 

always  represents  the  ugly  side  of  human  nature,  an  antiquated,  grumpy, 
sullen,  egotistical,  jealous,  grovelling,  frightened  character,  ever  and  anon 
raising  a  laugh  on  account  of  his  boasting,  mean,  morose,  odd  qualities. 
Moliere  was,  at  the  time  he  wrote  Sganarelle,  more  than  thirty  years  old, 
and*  could  therefore  no  longer  successfully  represent  Mascarille  as  the 
rollicking  servant  of  the  Blunderer. 

This  farce  was  published  by  a  certain  Mr.  Neufvillenaine,  who  was  so 
smitten  by  it  that,  after  having  seen  it  represented  several  times,  he  knew 
it  by  heart,  wrote  it  out,  and  published  it,  accompanied  by  a  running 
commentary,  which  is  not  worth  much,  and  preceded  by  a  letter  to  a 
friend  in  which  he  extols  its  beauties.  Moli&re  got,  in  1663,  his  name  in- 
serted, instead  of  that  of  Neufvillenaine,  in  the  privilege  du  roi. 
•  Mr.  Henry  Baker,  the  translator  of  this  play,  in  the  "  Select  Comedies 
of  M.  de  Moliere,  London,  1732,''  oddly  dedicates  it  to  Miss  Wolsten- 
holme  *  in  the  following  words : — 

MADAM, 

Be  so  good  to  accept  this  little  Present  as^n  Instance  of  my  high  Esteem.  Who- 
ever "has  any  Knowledge  of  the  French  Language,  or  any  Taste  for  COMEDY,  must 
needs  distinguish  the  Excellency  of  Moliere' s  Plays  :  one  of  which  is  here  trans- 
lated. What  the  English  may  be,  I  leave  others  to  determine  ;  but  the  ORIGINAL, 
which  you  receive  along  with  it,  is,  I  am  certain,  worthy  your  Perusal. 

Tho'  what  You  read,  at  present,  is  called  a  DEDICATION,  it  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
unlike  one  of  any  thing  You  ever  saw  :  for,  You'll  find  not  one  Vford,  in  Praise, 
either  of  Your  blooming  Youth,  Your  agreeable  Person,  Your  genteel  Behaviour, 
Your  easy  Temper,  or  Your  good  Sense  .  .  .  and,  the  Reason  is,  that  I  cannot  for 
my  Life  "bring  myself  to  such  a  Degree  of  Impertinence,  as  to  sit  down  with  a  solemn 
Countenance,  and  Take  upon  me  to  inform  the  World,  that  the  Sun  is  bright,  and 
that  the  Spring  is  lovely. 

My  Knowledge  of  You  from  Your  Infancy,  and  the  many  Civilities  I  am  obliged 
for  to  Your  Family,  will,  I  hope,  be  an  Excuse  for  this  Presumption  in, 
MADAM.  Your  most  obedient  humble  servant. 

H,  B. 
Enfield, 

Jan.  ist  1731-8. 

This  play  seems  to  have  induced  several  English  playwrights  to  imi- 
tate it.  Fiist,  we  have  Sir  William  D'Avenant's  The  Playhouse  to  be  Let, 
of  which  the  date  of  the  first  performance  is  uncertain.  According  to  the 
Biographia  Britannica,  it  was  "  a  very  singular  entertainment,  composed 
of  five  acts,  each  being  a  distinct  performance.  The  first  act  is  introduc- 
tory, shows  the  distress  of  the  players  in  the  time  of  vacation,  that  obliges 
them  to  let  their  house,  which  several  offer  to  take  for  different  purposes ; 
amongst  the  rest  a  Frenchman,  who  had  brought  over  a  troop  of  his 
countrymen  to  act  a  farce.  This  is  performed  in  the  second  act,  which  is 
a  translation  of  Moliere's  Sganarelle,  or  the  Cuckold  Conceit ;  all  in  broken 
French  to  make  the  people  laugh.  The  third  act  is  a  sort  of  comic  opera, 
under  the  title  of  The  History  of  Sir  Francis  Drake.  The  fourth  act  is  a 
serious  opera,  representing  the  cruelties  of  the  Spaniards  in  Peru.  The 
fifth  act  is  a  burlesque  in  Heroicks  on  the  Amours  of  Caesar  and  Cleo- 
patra, has  a  great  deal  of  wit  and  humour,  and  was  often  acted  afterwards 
by  itself." 

*I  suppose  the  lady  was  a  descendant  of  Sir  John  Wolstenholme,  mentioned  in 
one  of  the  notes  of  Pepy's  Diary,  Sept.  5,  1662,  as  created  a  baronet,  1664,  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  Lord  Clarendon's,  and  collector  outward  for  the  Port  of  London— 
ob.  1679. 


THE  SELF-DECEIVED   HUSBAND.  173 

With  the  exception  of  the  first  act,  all  the  others,  which  are  separate 
and  distinct,  but  short  dramatic  pieces,  were  written  in  the  time  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  and  two  of  them  at  least  were  performed  at  the  Cockpit,  when 
Sir  William  D'Avenant  had  obtained  permission  to  present  his  entertain- 
ments of  music  and  perspective  in  scenes. 

The  second  imitation  of  Sganarelle  is  "  Tom  Essence,  or  the  Modish 
Wife,  a  Comedy  as  it  is  acted  at  the  Duke's  Theatre,  1677.  London, 
printed  by  T.  M.  for  W.  Cademan,  at  the  Pope's  Head,  in  the  Lower 
Walk  of  the  New  Exchange  in  the  Strand,  1677."  This  play  is  written 
by  a  Mr.  Thomas  Rawlins,  printer  and  engraver  to  the  Mint,  under 
Charles  the  First  and  Second,  and  is  founded  on  two  French  comedies — 
viz.,  Moliere's  Sganarelle,  and  Thomas  Corneille's  Don  Cesar  d'  Avalos. 
The  prologue  is  too  bad  to  be  quoted,  and  I  doubt  if  it  can  ever  have  been 
spoken  on  any  stage.  This  play  is  written  partly  in  blank  verse,  partly  in 
prose ;  though  very  coarse,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  clever  and  witty.  Old 
Moneylove,  a  credulous  fool,  who  has  a  young  wife  (Act  ii.,  Scene  i),  re- 
minds one  at  times  of  the  senator  Antonio  in  Otway's  Venice  Preserved, 
and  is,  of  course,  deceived  by  the  gallant  Stanley  ;  the  sayings  and  doings 
of  Mrs.  Moneylove,  who  is  "  what  she  ought  not  to  be,"  and  the  way  she 
tricks  her  husband,  are  very  racy,  perhaps  too  much  so  for  the  taste  of 
the  present  times.  I  do  not  think  any  dramatist  would  now  bring  upon 
the  stage  a  young  lady  like  Theodocia,  daughter  of  old  Moneylove,  read- 
ing the  list  about  Squire  Careless.  Tom  Essence  is  a  seller  of  perfumes,  a 
•'jealous  coxcomb  of  his  wife  ;''  and  Courtly  is  "  a  sober  gentleman,  ser- 
vant to  Theodocia  ;"  these  are  imitations  of  Sganarelle  and  Lelio.  Love- 
all,  "a  wilde debaucht  blade,"  and  Mrs.  Luce,  '  a  widdow disguis'd,  and 
passes  for  Theodocia's  maid,"  are  taken  from  Corneille. 

In  the  epilogue,  the  whole  of  which  cannot  be  given,  Mrs,  Essence 
speaks  the  following  lines  : 

"  But  now  methinks  a  Cloak-Cabal  I  see, 
Whose  Prick-ears  glow,  whilst  they  their  Jealousie 
In  Essence  find  ;  but  Citty-Sirs,  I  fear, 
Most  of  you  have  more  cause  to  be  severe. 
We  yield  you  are  the  truest  Character." 

Nearly  all  the  scenes  imitated  in  this  play  from  Moliere's  Sganarelle 
contain  nothing  which  merits  to  be  reproduced. 

The  Perplexed  Couple,  or  Mistake  upon  Mistake,  as  it  is  acted  at  the 
New  Theatre  in  Lancolns- Inn- Fields,  by  the  Company  of  Comedians, 
acting  under  Letters  Patent  granted  by  King  Charles  the  Second.  Lon- 
don, Printed  for  W.  Meares  at  the  Lamb,  and  J.  Brown,  at  the  Black 
Swan  without  Temple-Bar,  1715,  is  the  third  imitation  of  Moliere's  Sga- 
narelle. This  comedy,  printed  for  two  gentlemea,  with  zoological  signs, 
was  written  by  a  Mr.  Charles  Molloy,  who  for  a  long  time  was  the  editor 
of  a  well-known  paper,  Common  Sense,  in  defence  of  Tory  principles. 
This  play  had  little  success,  and  deserved  to  have  had  none,  for  it  has  no 
merit  whatever.  Our  author  states  in  the  prologue : — 

"The  injur'd  Muses,  who  with  savage  Rage, 
Of  late  have  often  been  expell'd  a  Tyrant  Stage, 
Here  fly  for  Refuge  ;  where,  secure  from  Harms, 
By  you  protected,  shall  display  their  Charms  .  .  . 
No  Jest  profane  the  guilty  scene  deforms, 
That  impious  way  of  being  dull  he  scorns  ; 
No  Party  Cant  shall  here  inflame  the  Mind, 
And  poison  what  for  Pleasure  was  designed." 


174  SGANARELLE  J    OR, 

Mr.  Molloy  admits  in  the  preface  that  "  the  Incident  of  the  Picture  in 
the  Third  act,  something  in  the  Fourth,  and  one  Hint  in  the  last  Act,  are 
taken  from  the  Cocu  Imaginaire ;  the  rest  I'm  forced  to  subscribe  to  my- 
self, for  I  can  lay  it  to  no  Body  else."  I  shall  only  remark  on  this,  that 
nearly  the  whole  play  is  a  mere  paraphrasing  of  Moliere's  Cocu  Imagi- 
naire, and  several  other  of  his  plays.  The  scene  between  Leonora,  the 
heroine,  and  Sterling,  the  old  usurer  and  lover  (Act  i.),  is  imitated  from 
Madelon's  description  in  the  art  of  making  love  in  the  Pretentious  Young 
Ladies,  and  so  are  many  others.  The  servant  Crispin  is  a  medley  of 
Mascarille  from  The  Blunderer,  of  Gros-Rene  from  The  Love- Tiff,  and 
of  the  servant  of  the  same  name  in  the  Cocu  Imaginaire  ;  the  interfering 
uncle  of  Lady  Thinwit,  is  taken  from  George  Dandin,  whilst  Sir  Anthony 
Thinwit  becomes  Sganarelle.  The  only  thing  new  I  have  been  able  to 
discover  in  The  Perplexed  Couple  is  the  lover  Octavio  disguising  himself 
as  a  pedlar  to  gain  admittance  to  the  object  of  his  love  ;  and  old  Sterling, 
the  usurer,  marrying  the  maid  instead  of  the  mistress.  Moliere's  farce 
has  been  lengthened  by  those  means  into  a  five-act  comedy,  and  though 
"  no  jest  profane  "  may  be  found  in  it  it  is  more  full  than  usual  of  coarse 
and  lewd  sayings,  which  can  hardly  be  called  inuendoes.  The  play  is  a 
mistake  altogether  ;  perhaps  that  is  the  reason  its  second  name  is  called 
Mistake  upon  Mistake. 

The  Picture,  or  the  Cuckold  in  Conceit,  a  Comedy  in  one  act,  by  Js. 
Miller,  is  founded  on  Moliere,  and  is  the  fourth  imitation  of  Sganarelle. 
London,  MDCCXLV.  This  play  is,  on  the  whole,  a  free  translation  of 
Moliere's,  interspersed  with  some  songs  set  to  music  by  Dr.  Arne.  Sgana- 
relle is  called  Mr.  Timothy  Dotterel,  grocer  and  common  councilman ; 
Gorgibus,  Mr.  Per-cent.  ;  Lelio,  Mr.  Heartly ;  Gros-Rene,  John  Broad, 
whilst  Celia's  maid  is  called  Phillis.  The  Prologue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Hav- 
ard,  ends  thus : 

"  .     .     '     To-night  we  serve 
A  Cuckold,  that  the  Laugh  does  well  deserve  ; 
A  Cuckold  in  Conceit,  by  Fancy  made 
As  mad,  as  by  the  common  Course  of  Trade  : 
And  more  to  please  ye,  and  his  Worth  enhance, 
He's  carbonado'd  a  la  mode  de  France  ; 
Cook'd  by  Moliere,  great  Master  of  his  Trade, 
From  whose  Receipt  this  Harrico  was  made. 
But  if  that  poignant  Taste  we  fail  to  take, 
That  something,  that  a  mere  Receipt  can't  make  ; 
Forgive  the  Failure — we're  but  Copies  all, 
And  want  the  Spirit  of  th'  Original." 

The  fifth  and  best  imitation  is  Arthur  Murphy's  All  in  the  Wrong,  a 
comedy  in  five  acts,  first  performed  during  the  summer  season  of  1761,  at 
the  Theatre  Royal,  in  Drury  Lane.  Though  the  chief  idea  and  several 
of  the  scenes  are  taken  from  Sganarelle,  yet  the  characters  are  well  drawn, 
and  the  play,  as  a  whole,  very  entertaining.  The  Prologue,  written  and 
spoken  by  Samuel  Foote,  is  as  follows  : 

"  To-night,  be  it  known  to  Box,  Gall'ry,  and  Pit, 

Will  be  open'd  the  best  Summer- Warehouse  for  Wit  ;* 
The  New  Manufacture,  Foote  and  Co., Undertakers  ; 
Play,  Pantomime,  Opera,  Farce, — by  the  Makers  ! 

•  Mr.  Garrick,  at  this  time,  had  let  his  playhouse  for  the  summer  months. 


THE   SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  175 

We  scorn,  like  our  brethren,  our  fortunes  to  owe 

To  Shakespeare  and  Southern,  to  Otway  and  Rowe. 

Though  our  judgment  may  err,  yet  our  justice  is  shewn. 

For  we  promise  to  mangle  no  works  but  our  own. 

And  moreover  on  this  you  may  firmly  rely, 

If  we  can't  make  you  laugh,  that  we  won't  make  you  cry. 

For  Roscius,  who  knew  we  were  mirth-loving  souls, 

Has  lock'd  up  his  lightning,  his  daggers,  and  bowls. 

Resolv'd  that  in  buskins  no  hero  shall  stalk, 

He  has  shut  us  quite  out  of  the  Tragedy  walk. 

No  blood,  no  blank  verse  !         and  in  short  we're  undone. 

Unless  you're  contented  with  Frolic  and  Fun. 

If  tired  of  her  round  in  the  Ranelagh-mill, 
There  should  be  but  one  female  inclined  to  sit  stfll ; 
If  blind  to  the  beauties,  or  sick  of  the  squall, 
A  party  should  shun  to  catch  cold  at  Vauxhall  ; 
If  at  Sadler's  sweet  Wells  the  made  wine  should  be  thick. 
The  cheese-cakes  turn  sour,  or  Miss  Wilkinson  sick  ; 
If  the  fume  of  the  pipes  should  oppress  you  in  June, 
Or  the  tumblers  be  lame,  or  the  bells  out  of  tune; 
I  hope  you  will  call  at  our  warehouse  in  Drury  ; 
We've  a  curious  assortment  of  goods,  I  assure  you ; 
Domestic  and  foreign,  and  all  kinds  of  wares  ; 
English  cloths,  Irish  linnen,  and  French  petenlairs  ! 

If  for  want  of  good  custom,  or  losses  in  trade, 
The  poetical  partners  should  bankrupts  be  made  ; 
If  from  dealings  too  large,  we  plunge  deeply  in  debt, 
And  Whereas  issue  out  in  the  Muses  Gazette  ; 
We'll  on  you  our  assigns  for  Certificates  call ; 
Though  insolvent,  we're  honest,  and  give  up  our  all." 

Otway  in  his  very  indecent  play,  The  Soldier's  Fortune,  performed  at 
Dorset  Garden,  1681,  has  borrowed  freely  from  Moliere ;  namely  :  one 
scene  from  Sganarelle,  four  scenes  from  The  School  for  Husbands,  and 
a  hint  from  The  School  for  Wives. 

The  joke  from  The  Pretentious  Young  Ladies,  Scene  xii.,  page  162, 
about  ''  the  half  moon  and  the  full  moon  "  is  repeated  in  the  conversation 
between  Fourbin  and  Bloody-Bones  in  The  Soldiers  Fortune. 

Sir  John  Vanbrugh  also  translated  Moliere's  Sganarelle,  which  was  per- 
formed at  the  Queen's  Theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  1706,  but  has  not  been 
printed. 

There  was  also  a  ballad  opera  played  at  Drury  Lane  April  n,  i733> 
called  the  Imaginary  Cuckold,  which  is  an  imitation  of  Sganarelle. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

GORGIBUS,  a  citizen  of  Paris. 

LELIO,  in  love  with  Celia. 

SGANARELLE,3a  citizen  of  Paris  and  the  self-deceived 

husband. 

VILLEBREQUIN,  father  to  Valere. 
GROS-RENE,  servant  to  Lelio. 
A  RELATIVE  OF  SGANARELLE'S  WIFE. 

CELIA,  daughter  of  Gorgibus. 
SGANARELLE'S  WIFE. 
CELIA'S  MAID. 

Scene, — A  PUBLICK  PLACE  IN  PARIS. 


*  Moliere  acted  this  part  himself.  In  the  inventory  of  his  dresses  taken 
after  his  death,  and  given  by  M.  Eudore  Souli£  in  his  Rccherches  sur  Mo- 
liere, 1863,  we  find :  "  a  .  .  .  dress  for  the  Cocu  imaffinaire,  consisting 
of  knee-breeches,  doublet,  cloak,  collar,  and  shoes,  all  in  crimson  red 
satin." 

M 


SGANARELLE: 

OR     THE     SELF-DECEIVED     HUSBAND. 
(SGANARELLE:   OU  LE  COCU  IMAGINA1RE.) 


SCENE  I. — GORGIBUS,  CELIA,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

CEL.  ( Coming  out  in  tears,  her  father  following  her). 
Ah !  never  expect  my  heart  to  consent  to  that. 

GORG.  What  do  you  mutter,  you  little  impertinent 
girl?  Do  you  suppose  you  can  thwart  my  resolution? 
Have  I  not  absolute  power  over  you?  And  shall  your 
youthful  brain  control  my  fatherly  discretion  by  foolish 
arguments?  Which  of  us  two  has  most  right  to  command 
the  other?  Which  of  us  two,  you  or  I,  is,  in  your  opi- 
nion, best  able  to  judge  what  is  advantageous  for  you? 
Zounds,  do  not  provoke  me  too  much,  or  you  may  feel, 
and  in  a  very  short  time  too,  what  strength  this  arm  of 
mine  still  possesses  1  Your  shortest  way,  you  obstinate 
minx,  would  be  to  accept  without  any  more  ado  the  hus- 
band intended  for  you;  but  you  say,  "I  do  not  know 
what  kind  of  temper  he  has,  and  I  ought  to  think  about  it 
beforehand,  if  you  will  allow  me."  I  know  that  he  is 
heir  to  a  large  fortune ;  ought  I  therefore  to  trouble  my 
head  about  anything  else?  Can  this  man,  who  has  twenty 
thousand  golden  charms  in  his  pocket  to  be  beloved  by 
you,  want  any  accomplishments?  Come,  come,  let  him 
be  what  he  will,  I  promise  you  that  with  such  a  sum  he  is 
a  very  worthy  gentleman ! 

CEL.  Alas! 

GORG.  Alas,  indeed !  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  ? 

179 


i8o  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCENE  i. 

A  fine  alas  you  have  uttered  just  now !  Look  ye !  If 
once  you  put  me  in  a  passion  you  will  have  plenty  of  op- 
portunities for  shouting  alas !  This  comes  of  that  eager- 
ness of  yours  to  read  novels  day  and  night ;  your  head  is 
so  full  of  all  kinds  of  nonsense  about  love,  that  you  talk 
of  God  much  less  than  of  Clelie.  Throw  into  the  fire 
all  these  mischievous  books,  which  are  every  day  cor- 
rupting the  minds  of  so  many  young  people  ;  instead  of 
such  trumpery,  read,  as  you  ought  to  do,  the  Quatrains  of 
Pibrac*  and  the  learned  memorandum-books  of  Councillor 
Matthieu,5  a  valuable  work  and  full  of  fine  sayings  for  you 
to  learn  by  heart;  the  Guide  for  Sinners6  is  also  a  good 
book.  Such  writings  teach  people  in  a  short  time  how  to 
spend  their  lives  well,  and  if  you  had  never  read  anything 
but  such  moral  books  you  would  have  known  better  how 
to  submit  to  my  commands. 

CEL.  Do  you  suppose,  dear  father,  I  can  ever  forget 
that  unchangeable  affection  I  owe  to  Lelio  ?  I  should  be 
wrong  to  dispose  of  my  hand  against  your  will,  but  you 
yourself  engaged  me  to  him. 

GORG.  Even  if  you  were  engaged  ever  so  much,  an- 
other man  has  made  his  appearance  whose  fortune  annuls 
your  engagement.  Lelio  is  a  pretty  fellow,  but  learn  that 
there  is  nothing  that  does  not  give  way  to  money,  that 
gold  will  make  even  the  most  ugly  charming,  and  that 
without  it  everything  else  is  but  wretchedness.  I  believe 
you  are  not  very  fond  of  Valere,  but  though  you  do  not 

4  Gui  du  Faur  de  Pibrac  (1528-1584)  was  a  distinguished  diplomatist, 
magistrate,  and  orator,  who  wrote  several  works,  of  which  the  Cinquante 
quatrains  contenant  preceptes  et  enseignements  utilespourla  vie  de  I'homme, 
composes  a  limitation  de  Phocylides,  Epicharmus,  et  autres  poetes  grecs, 
and  which  number  he  afterwards  increased  to  126,  are  the  best  known. 
These   quatrains,  or  couplets  of  four  verses,  have  been  translated  into 
nearly  all  European  and  several  Eastern  languages.      A   most  elegant 
reprint  has  been  published   of  them,  in  1874,  by  M.  A.  Lemerre,    of 
Paris. 

5  Pierre    Matthieu    (1563-1621),   a   French  historian  and  poet  wrote, 
among  other  works,  his   Toilettes  de  la  vie  et  de  la  mart,  quatrains  de  la 

Vanite  du  Monde,  a  collection  of  274  moral  quatrains,  divided  in  three 
parts,  each  part  of  which  was  published  separately  in  an  oblong  shape, 
like  a  memorandum  book ;  hence  the  name  Tablettes. 

6  La  guide  des  pecheurs,  the   Guide  for  Sinners,  is   a   translation  in 
French  of  an  ascetic  Spanish  work,  la  guia  de  pecadores,  written   by  a 
Dominican  friar,  Lewis,  of  Granada. 


SCBNBH.]  THE   SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  iSl 

like  him  as  a  lover,  you  will  like  him  as  a  husband.  The 
very  name  of  husband  endears  a  man  more  than  is  gen- 
erally supposed,  and  love  is  often  a  consequence  of  mar- 
riage. But  what  a  fool  I  am  to  stand  arguing  when  I 
possess  the  absolute  right  to  command.  A  truce  then,  I 
tell  you,  to  your  impertinence ;  let  me  have  no  more  of 
your  foolish  complaints.  This  evening  Valere  intends  to 
visit  you,  and  if  you  do  not  receive  him  well,  and  look 
kindly  upon  him,  I  shall  .  .  .  but  I  will  say  no  more  on 
this  subject. 

SCENE  II. — CELIA,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

MAID.  What,  madam  !  you  refuse  positively  what  so 
many  other  people  would  accept  with  all  their  heart  ! 
You  answer  with  tears  a  proposal  for  marriage,  and  delay 
for  a  long  time  to  say  a  "  yes  "  so  agreeable  to  hear  ! 
Alas  !  why  does  some  one  not  wish  to  marry  me  ?  I 
should  not  need  much  entreaty :  and  so  far  from  thinking 
it  any  trouble  to  say  "yes"  once,  believe  me  I  would 
very  quickly  say  it  a  dozen  times.  Your  brother's  tutor 
was  quite  right  when,  as  we  were  talking  about  worldly 
affairs,  he  said,  "A  woman  is  like  the  ivy,  which  grows 
luxuriantly  whilst  it  clings  closely  to  the  tree,  but  never 
thrives  if  it  be  separated  from  it."  Nothing  can  be  truer, 
my  dear  mistress,  and  I,  miserable  sinner,  have  found  it 
out.  Heaven  rest  the  soul  of  my  poor  Martin  !  when  he 
was  alive  my  complexion  was  like  a  cherub's ;  I  was  plump 
and  comely,  my  eyes  sparkled  brightly,  and  I  felt  happy : 
now  I  am  doleful.  In  those  pleasant  times,  which  flew 
away  like  lightning,  I  went  to  bed,  in  the  very  depth  of 
winter,  without  kindling  a  .fire  in  the  room  ;  even  airing 
the  sheets  appeared  then  to  me  ridiculous ;  but  now  I 
shiver  even  in  the  dogdays.  In  short,  madam,  believe  me 
there  is  nothing  like  having  a  husband  at  night  by  one's 
side,  were  it  only  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him  say, 
"  God  bless  you,"  whenever  one  may  happen  to  sneeze. 

CEL.  Can  you  advise  me  to  act  so  wickedly  as  to  for- 
sake Lelio  and  take  up  with  this  ill-shaped  fellow  ? 

MAID.  Upon  my  word,  your  Lelio  is  a  mere  fool  to  stay 
away  the  very  time  he  is  wanted  ;  his  long  absence  makes 
me  very  much  suspect  some  change  in  his  affection. 


182  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCENE  iv. 

CEL.  (showing  her  the  portrait  of  Lelio).  Oh  !  do  not 
distress  me  by  such  dire  forebodings  !  Observe  carefully 
the  features  of  his  face ;  they  swear  to  me  an  eternal  af- 
fection ;  after  all,  I  would  not  willingly  believe  them  to 
tell  a  falsehood,  but  that  he  is  such  as  he  is  here  limned 
by  art,  and  that  his  affection  for  me  remains  unchanged. 

MAID.  To  be  sure,  these  features  denote  a  deserving 
lover,  whom  you'are  right  to  regard  tenderly. 

CEL.  And  yet  I  must Ah!  support  me. 

(She  lets  fall  the  portrait  of  Lelio. 

MAID.  Madam,  what  is  the  cause  of  ...  Heavens  ! 
she  swoons.  Oh  !  make  haste  !  help  !  help  ! 

SCENE  III. — CELIA,  SGANARELLE,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

SCAN.  What  is  the  matter  ?    I  am  here. 

MAID.   My  lady  is  dying. 

SCAN.  What !  is  that  all  ?  You  made  such  a  noise,  I 
thought  the  world  was  at  an  end.  Let  us  see,  however. 
Madam,  are  you  dead  ?  Um  !  she  does  not  say  one 
word. 

MAID.  I  shall  fetch  somebody  to  carry  her  in  ;  be  kind 
enough  to  hold  her  so  long. 

SCENE  IV.  — CELIA,  SGANARELLE,  SGANARELLE' s  WIFE. 

SGAN.  {passing  his  hand  over  Cflia's  bosom).  She  is 
cold  all  over,  and  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  it.  Let 
me  draw  a  little  nearer  and  try  whether  she  breathes  or 
not.  Upon  my  word,  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  perceive  still 
some  signs  of  life. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE,  (looking  from,  the  window).  Ah!  what 
do  I  see  ?  My  husband,  holding  in  his  arms  .  .  .  But  I 
shall  go  down  ;  he  is  false  to  me  most  certainly ;  I  should 
be  glad  to  catch  him. 

SCAN.  She  must  be  assisted  very  quickly ;  she  would 
certainly  be  in  the  wrong  to  die.  A  journey  to  another 
world  is  very  foolish,  so  long  as  a  body  is  able  to  stay  in 
this.  (He  carries  her  in). 

SCENE  V. — SGANARELLE'S  WIFE,  alone. 
He  has  suddenly  left  this  spot ;  his  flight  has  disap- 
pointed my  curiosity ;  but  I  doubt  no  longer  that  he  is 
unfaithful  to  me  ;   the  little  I  have  seen  sufficiently  proves 


SCKNH  vi.]  THE   SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  183 

it.  I  am  no  longer  astonished  that  he  returns  my  modest 
love  with  strange  coldness  ;  the  ungrateful  wretch  reserves 
his  caresses  for  others,  and  starves  me  in  order  to  feed 
their  pleasures.  This  is  the  common  way  of  husbands  ; 
they  become  indifferent  to  what  is  lawful ;  at  the  begin- 
ning they  do  wonders,  and  seem  to  be  very  much  in  love 
with  us,  but  the  wretches  soon  grow  weary  of  our  fond- 
ness, and  carry  elsewhere  what  is  due  to  us  alone.  Oh  ! 
how  it  vexes  me  that  the  law  will  not  permit  us  to  change 
our  husband  as  we  do  our  linen  !  That  would  be  very 
convenient ;  and,  troth,  I  know  some  women  whom  it 
would  please  as  much  as  myself.  ( Taking  up  the  picture 
which  Celia  had  let  fall~).  But  what  a  pretty  thing  has 
fortune  sent  me  here  ;  the  enamel  of  it  is  most  beautiful, 
the  workmanship  delightful  ;  let  me  open  it  ? 

SCENE  VI. — SGANARELLE,  SGANARELLE'S  WIFE. 

SCAN.  {Thinking  himself  alone}.  They  thought  her 
dead,  but  it  was  nothing  at  all  !  She  is  already  recover- 
ing and  nearly  well  again.  But  I  see  my  wife. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  {Thinking  herself  alone).  O  Heaven  !  It 
is  a  miniature,  a  fine  picture  of  a  handsome  man. 

SCAN.  {Aside,  and  looking  over  his  wife's  shoulder). 
What  is  this  she  looks  at  so  closely?  This  picture  bodes 
my  honour  little  good.  A  very  ugly  feeling  of  jealousy 
begins  to  creep  over  me. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  {Not  seeing  her  husband).  I  never  saw 
anything  more  beautiful  in  my  life !  The  workmanship 
is  even  of  greater  value  than  the  gold  !  Oh,  how  sweet  it 
smells  ! 

SCAN.  {Aside).  The  deuce  !  She  kisses  it !  I  am  vic- 
timized ! 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  {Continues  her  Monologue.*)  I  think  it 
must  be  a  charming  thing  to  have  such  a  fine-looking  man 
for  a  sweetheart ;  if  he  should  urge  his  suit  very  much  the 
temptation  would  be  great.  Alas  !  why  have  I  not  a  hand- 
some man  like  this  for  my  husband  instead  of  my  booby, 
my  clod-hopper  .  .  .  ? 

SCAN.  {Snatching  the  portrait  from  her).  What,  hussey  ! 
have  I  caught  you  in  the  very  act,  slandering  your  honoura- 
ble and  darling  husband  ?  According  to  you,  most  worthy 


184  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCBNBVI. 

spouse,  and  everything  well  considered,  the  husband  is  not 
as  good  as  the  wife?  In  Beelzebub's  name  (and  may  he 
fly  away  with  you),  what  better  match  could  you  wish  for? 
Is  there  any  fault  to  be  found  with  me  ?  It  seems  that  this 
shape,  this  air,  which  everybody  admires ;  this  face,  so  fit 
to  inspire  love,  for  which  a  thousand  fair  ones  sigh  both 
night  and  day ;  in  a  word,  my  own  delightful  self,  by  no 
manner  of  means  pleases  you.  Moreover,  to  satisfy  your 
ravenous  appetite  you  add  to  the  husband  the  relish  of 
a  gallant. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  I  see  plainly  the  drift  of  your  jocular  re- 
marks, though  you  do  not  clearly  express  yourself.  You 
expect  by  these  means  .  .  . 

SCAN.  Try  to  impose  upon  others,  not  upon  me,  I  pray 
you.  The  fact  is  evident ;  I  have  in  my  hands  a  convin- 
cing proof  of  the  injury  I  complain  of. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  I  am  already  too  angry,  and  do  not  wish 
you  to  make  me  more  so  by  any  fresh  insult.  Hark  ye, 
do  not  imagine  that  you  shall  keep  this  pretty  thing; 
consider  .  .  . 

SCAN.  I  am  seriously  considering  whether  I  shall  break 
your  neck.  I  wish  I  had  but  the  original  of  this  portrait 
in  my  power  as  much  as  I  have  the  copy. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  Why? 

SGAN.  For  nothing  at  all,  dear,  sweet  object  of  my 
love  !  I  am  very  wrong  to  speak  out ;  my  forehead  ought 
to  thank  you  for  many  favours  received.  (Looking  at  the 
portrait  of  Lelio).  There  he  is,  your  darling,  the  pretty 
bed-fellow,  the  wicked  incentive  of  your  secret  flame,  the 
merry  blade  with  whom  .  .  . 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  With  whom?    Goon. 

SGAN.  With  whom,  I  say  ...  I  am  almost  bursting 
with  vexation.7 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  What  does  the  drunken  sot  mean  by  all 
this? 

7  The  original  has  :  "/««  creve  d'ennuis."  The  French  word  ennui, 
which  now  only  means  weariness  of  mind,  signified  formerly  injury,  and 
the  vexation  or  hatred  caused  thereby  ;  something  like  the  English  word 
"annoy,"  as  in  Shakespeare's  Richard  III.,  v.  3  : 

"  Sleep,  Richmond,  sleep  in  peace,  and  wake  in  joy; 
Good  angels  guard  thee  from  the  boar's  annoy." 


SCENB  vii.]  THE  SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  l8$ 

SCAN.  You  know  but  too  well,  Mrs.  Impudence.  No 
one  will  call  me  any  longer  Sganarelle,  but  every  one  will 
give  me  the  title  of  Signer  Cornutus ;  my  honor  is  gone, 
but  to  reward  you,  who  took  it  from  me,  I  shall  at  the  very 
least  break  you  an  arm  or  a  couple  of  ribs. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  thus? 

SCAN.   How  dare  you  play  me  these  devilish  pranks  ? 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  What  devilish  pranks?  Say  what  you 
mean. 

SCAN.  Oh!  It  is  not  worth  complaining  of.  A  stag's 
top-knot  on  my  head  is  indeed  a  very  pretty  ornament  for 
everybody  to  come  and  look  at. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  After  you  have  insulted  your  wife  so 
grossly  as  to  excite  her  thirst  for  vengeance,  you  stupidly 
imagine  you  can  prevent  the  effects  of  it  by  pretending  to 
be  angry  ?  Such  insolence  was  never  before  known  on 
the  like  occasion.  The  offender  is  the  person  who  be- 
gins the  quarrel. 

SCAN.  Oh  !  what  a  shameless  creature  !  To  see  the 
confident  behaviour  of  this  woman,  would  not  any  one 
suppose  her  to  be  very  virtuous  ? 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  Away,  go  about  your  business,  wheedle 
your  mistresses,  tell  them  you  love  them,  caress  them  even, 
but  give  me  back  my  picture,  and  do  not  make  a  jest  of 
me.  (She  snatches  the  picture  from  him  and  runs  away}. 

SCAN.  So  you  think  to  escape  me  ;  but  I  shall  get  hold 
of  it  again  in  spite  of  you. 

,  SCENE  VII. — LELIO,  GROS-RENE. 

GR.-RE.  Here  we  are  at  last;  but,  sir,  if  I  might  be  so 
bold,  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  one  thing. 

LEL.  Well,  speak. 

GR.-RE.  Are  you  possessed  by  some  devil  or  other,  that 
you  do  not  sink  under  such  fatigues  as  these  ?  For  eight 
whole  days  we  have  been  riding  long  stages,  and  have  not 
been  sparing  of  whip  and  spur  to  urge  on  confounded 
screws,  whose  cursed  trot  shook  us  so  very  much  that,  for 
my  part,  I  feel  as  if  every  limb  was  out  of  joint ;  without 
mentioning  a  worse  mishap  which  troubles  me  very  much 
in  a  place  I  will  not  mention.  And  yet,  no  sooner  are 


1 86  SGANARELLE  ;   OR,  [SCBNB  vxi. 

you  at  your  journey's  end,  than  you  go  out  well  and  hearty, 
without  taking  rest,  or  eating  the  least  morsel. 

LEL.  My  haste  may  well  be  excused,  for  I  am  greatly 
alarmed  about  the  report  of  Celia's  marriage.  You  know 
I  adore  her,  and,  before  everything,  I  wish  to  hear  if  there 
is  any  truth  in  this  ominous  rumour. 

GR.-RE.  Ay,  sir,  but  a  good  meal  would  be  of  great  use 
to  you  to  discover  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  this  report ; 
doubtless  you  would  become  thereby  much  stronger  to 
withstand  the  strokes  of  fate.  I  judge  by  my  own  self, 
for,  when  I  am  fasting,  the  smallest  disappointment  gets 
hold  of  me  and  pulls  me  down ;  but  when  I  have  eaten 
sufficiently  my  soul  can  resist  anything,  and  the  greatest 
misfortunes  cannot  depress  it.  Believe  me,  stuff  yourself 
well,  and  do  not  be  too  cautious.  To  fortify  you  under 
whatever  misfortune  may  do,  and  in  order  to  prevent  sor- 
row from  entering  your  heart,  let  it  float  in  plenty  of 
wine.8 

LEL.  I  cannot  eat. 

GR.-RE.  {Aside}.  I  can  eat  very  well  indeed  ;  If  it  is 
not  true  may  I  be  struck  dead  !  (Aloud).  For  all  that, 
your  dinner  shall  be  ready  presently. 

LEL.  Hold  your  tongue,  I  command  you. 

GR.-RE.  How  barbarous  is  that  order  ! 

LEL.  I  am  not  hungry,  but  uneasy. 

GR.-RE.  And  I  am  hungry  and  uneasy  as  well,  to  see 
that  a  foolish  love-affair  engrosses  all  your  thoughts.' 

LEL.  Let  me  but  get  some  information  about  my  heart's 


8  This  is  an  imitation  of  Plautus'  Curculio,  or  the  Forgery.      The  Para- 
site of  Phaedromus,  who  gave  his  name  to  the  piece,  says  (ii.  3) : — "  I  am 
quite  undone.     I  can  hardly  see ;  my  mouth  is  bitter  ;  my  teeth  are  blunt- 
ed ;  my  jaws  are  clammy  through  fasting ;  with  my  entrails  thus  lank  with 
abstinence  from  food,  am  I  come  .  .  .  Let's  cram  down  something  first ; 
the  gammon,  the  udder,  and  the  kernels ;  these  are  the   foundations  for 
the  stomach,  with  head  and  roast-beef,  a  good-sized  cup  and  a  capacious 
pot,  that  council  enough  may  be  forthcoming." 

9  Shakespeare,  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  (Act  ii.,  Sc.  l),  has  the 
following : 

Speed.  .  .  .  Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  'tis  dinner-time. 

Val.  I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir;  though  the  chameleon,  love,  can  feed  on 
the  air,  I  am  one  that  am  nourished  by  my  victuals,  and  would  fain  have 
meat.  O,  be  not  like  your  mistress  ;  be  moved,  be  moved. 


SCENE  ix.]  THE  SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  187 

delight,  and  without  troubling  me  more,  go  and  take  your 
meal  if  you  like. 

GR.-RE.  I  never  say  nay  when  a  master  commands. 

SCENE  VIII. — LELIO,  alone. 

No,  no,  my  mind  is  tormented  by  too  many  terrors ; 
the  father  has  promised  me  Celia's  hand,  and  she  has 
given  me  such  proofs  of  her  love  that  I  need  not  despair. 

SCENE  IX. — SGANARELLE,  LELIO. 

SCAN.  (Not  seeing  Lelio,  and  holding  the  portrait  in  his 
hand}.  I  have  got  it.  I  can  now  at  my  leisure  look  at 
the  countenance  of  the  rascal  who  causes  my  dishonour. 
I  do  not  know  him  at  all. 

LEL.  (Aside}.  Heavens!  what  do  I  see?  If  that  be 
my  picture,  what  then  must  I  believe? 

SCAN.   (Not  seeing  Lelio}.     Ah !  poor  Sganarelle  !  your 
reputation  is  doomed,  and  to  what  a  sad  fate!     Must  .    . 
(Perceiving  that  Lelio  observes  him  he  goes  to  the  other 
side  of  the  stage}. 

LEL.  (Aside).  This  pledge  of  my  love  cannot  have  left 
the  fair  hands  to  which  I  gave  it,  without  startling  my 
faith  in  her. 

SCAN.  (Aside}.  People  will  make  fun  of  me  henceforth 
by  holding  up  their  two  fingers ;  songs  will  be  made  about 
me,  and  every  time  they  will  fling  in  my  teeth  that  scan- 
dalous affront,  which  a  wicked  wife  has  printed  upon  my 
forehead. 

LEL.  (Aside}.     Do  I  deceive  myself? 

SCAN.  (Aside).  Oh  !  Jade ! 10  were  you  impudent  enough 
to  cuckold  me  in  the  flower  of  my  age?  The  wife  too  of 
a  husband  who  may  be  reckoned  handsome !  and  must 
be  a  monkey,  a  cursed  addle-pated  fellow  .  .  . 

LEL.  (Aside,  looking  still  at  the  portrait  in  Sganarelle 's 
hand}.  I  am  not  mistaken ;  it  is  my  very  picture. 

SCAN.  (  Turning  his  back  towards  him}.  This  man  seems 
very  inquisitive. 

10  The  original  is  truande,  which,  as  well  as  the  masculine  truand, 
meant,  in  old  French,  a  vagabond,  a  rascal ;  it  is  still  retained  in  the 
English  phrase  "  to  play  the  truant." 


1 88  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCBNKX. 

LEL.   (Aside).     I  am  very  much  surprised. 

SCAN.  What  would  he  be  at? 

LEL.  (Aside).  I  will  speak  to  him.  {Aloud}.  May 
I  ...  (Sganare.lle  goes  farther  off).  I  say,  let  me  have 
one  word  with  you. 

SCAN.  (Aside,  and  moving  still  farther).  What  does  he 
wish  to  tell  me  now? 

LEL.  Will  you  inform  me  by  what  accident  that  picture 
came  into  your  hands? 

SCAN.  (Aside).  Why  does  he  wish  to  know?  But  I 
am  thinking  .  .  .  {Looking  at  Lelio  and  at  the  portrait 
in  his  hand}.  Oh !  upon  my  word,  I  know  the  cause  of 
his  anxiety;  I  no  longer  wonder  at  his  surprise.  This  is 
my  man,  or  rather,  my  wife's  man. 

LEL.  Pray,  relieve  my  distracted  mind,  and  tell  me  how 
you  come  by  ... 

SCAN.  Thank  Heaven,  I  know  what  disturbs  you;  this 
portrait,  which  causes  you  some  uneasiness,  is  your  very 
likeness,  and  was  found  in  the  hands  of  a  certain  acquaint- 
ance of  yours ;  the  soft  endearments  which  have  passed 
between  that  lady  and  you  are  no  secret  to  me.  I  cannot 
tell  whether  I  have  the  honour  to  be  known  by  your  gal- 
lant lordship  in  this  piece  of  gallantry;  but  henceforth,  be 
kind  enough  to  break  off  an  intrigue,  which  a  husband 
may  not  approve  of;  and  consider  that  the  holy  bonds 
of  wedlock  .  ,  . 

LEL.  What  do  you  say?  She  from  whom  you  received 
this  pledge  .  .  . 

SCAN.  Is  my  wife,  and  I  am  her  husband. 

LEL.   Her  husband  ? 

SCAN.  Yes,  her  husband,  I  tell  you.  Though  married 
I  am  far  from  merry ; u  you,  sir,  know  the  reason  of  it ; 
this  very  moment  I  am  going  to  inform  her  relatives  about 
this  affair. 

SCENE  X. — LELIO,  alone,. 
Alas  !  what  have  I  heard  !     The  report  then  was  true  that 

11  The  original  has  mari-tres-marri ;  literally,  "husband  very  sad;" 
marri  being  the  old  French  for  sad  :  the  ancient  plays  and  tales  are  full 
of  allusions  to  the  connection  between  these  two  words,  mart  and  marri. 


SCENE  xiii.]  THE   SELF-DECEIVED   HUSBAND.  189 

her  husband  was  the  ugliest  of  all  his  sex.  Even  if  your 
faithless  lips  had  never  sworn  me  more  than  a  thousand 
times  eternal  love,  the  disgust  you  should  have  felt  at 
such  a  base  and  shameful  choice  might  have  sufficiently 
secured  me  against  the  loss  of  your  affection  .  .  But  this 
great  insult,  and  the  fatigues  of  a  pretty  long  journey,  pro- 
duce all  at  once  such  a  violent  effect  upon  me,  that  I  feel 
faint,  and  can  hardly  bear  up  under  it. 

SCENE  XI. — LELIO,  SGANARELLE'S  WIFE. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  In  spite  of  me,  my  wretch  .  .  .  (Seeing 
Lelio).  Good  lack  !  what  ails  you?  I  perceive,  sir,  you 
are  ready  to  faint  away. 

LEL.  It  is  an  illness  that  has  attacked  me  quite  sud- 
denly. 

SCAN'S  WIFE.  I  am  afraid  you  shall  faint ;  step  in  here, 
and  stay  until  you  are  better. 

LEL.  For  a  moment  or  two  I  will  accept  of  your 
kindness. 

SCENE  XII. — SGANARELLE,  A  RELATIVE  OF  SGANARELLE'S 
WIFE. 

REL.  I  commend  a  husband's  anxiety  in  such  a  case, 
but  you  take  fright  a  little  too  hastily.  All  that  you  have 
told  me  against  her,  kinsman,  does  not  prove  her  guilty. 
It  is  a  delicate  subject,  and  no  one  should  ever  be  accused 
of  such  a  crime  unless  it  can  be  fully  proved. 

SCAN.  That  is  to  say,  unless  you  see  it. 

REL.  Too  much  haste  leads  us  to  commit  mistakes. 
Who  can  tell  how  this  picture  came  into  her  hands,  and, 
after  all,  whether  she  knows  the  man  ?  Seek  a  little  more 
information,  and  if  it  proves  to  be  as  you  suspect,  I  shall 
be  one  of  the  first  to  punish  her  offence. 

SCENE  XIII. — SGANARELLE,  alone. 

Nothing  could  be  said  fairer  ;  it  is  really  the  best  way 
to  proceed  cautiously.  Perhaps  I  have  dreamt  of  horns 
without  any  cause,  and  the  perspiration  has  covered  my 
brow  rather  prematurely.  My  dishonour  is  not  at  all 
proved  by  that  portrait  which  frightened  me  so  much.  Let 
me  endeavour  then  by  care  .  .  . 


IQO  SGANARELLE  ;    OR,  [SCENE  xvi. 

SCENE  XIV.  SGANARELL*E,  SGANARELLE'S  WIFE,  standing 
at  the  door  of  her  house,  with  LELIO. 

SCAN.  (Aside  seeing  them}.  Ha !  what  do  I  see  ? 
Zounds  !  there  can  be  no  more  question  about  the  por- 
trait, for  upon  my  word  here  stands  the  very  man,  in  pro- 
pria  persona. 

SCAN. 's  WIFE.  You  hurry  away  too  fast,  sir;  if  you 
leave  us  so  quickly,  you  may  perhaps  have  a  return  of 
your  illness. 

LEL.  No,  no,  I  thank  you  heartily  for  the  kind  assist- 
ance you  have  rendered  me. 

SCAN.  (Aside}.  The  deceitful  woman  is  to  the  last 
polite  to  him.  (Sganarelle1  s  Wife  goes  into  the  house 
again). 

SCENE  XV. — SGANARELLE,  LELIO. 

SCAN.  He  has  seen  me,  let  us  hear  what  he  can  say 
to  me. 

LEL.  (Aside}.  Oh  !  my  soul  is  moved  !  this  sight  in- 
spires me  with  .  .  .  but  I  ought  to  blame  this  unjust 
resentment,  and  only  ascribe  my  sufferings  to  my  merciless 
fate;  yet  I  cannot  help  envying  the  success  that  has 
crowned  his  passion.  (Approaching  Sganarelle}.  O  too 
happy  mortal  in  having  so  beautiful  a  wife. 

SCENE  XVI. — SGANARELLE,    CELIA,  at  her  window,  seeing 
Lelio  go  away. 

SCAN.  (Alone}.  This  confession  is  pretty  plain.  His  ex- 
traordinary speech  surprises  me  as  much  as  if  horns  had 
grown  upon  my  head.  (Looking  at  the  side  where  Lelio 
went  ojf).  Go  your  way,  you  have  not  acted  at  all  like  an 
honourable  man. 

CEL.  (Aside,  entering).  Who  can  that  be  ?  Just  now  I 
saw  Lelio.  Why  does  he  conceal  his  return  from  me  ? 

SCAN.  (Without  seeing  Celid}.  "  O  too  happy  mortal  in 
having  so  beautiful  a  wife  ! ' '  Say  rather,  unhappy  mortal 
in  having  such  a  disgraceful  spouse  through  whose  guilty 
passion,  it  is  now  but  too  clear,  I  have  been  cuckolded 
without  any  feeling  of  compassion.  Yet  I  allow  him  to 
go  away  after  such  a  discovery,  and  stand  with  my  arms 
folded  like  a  regular  silly-billy  !  I  ought  at  least  to  have 


SCBNBXVI.]  THE  SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  IQI 

knocked  his  hat  off,  thrown  stones  at  him,  or  mud  on  his 
cloak  ;  to  satisfy  my  wrath  I  should  rouse  the  whole 
neighbourhood,  and  cry,  "  Stop,  thief  of  my  honour  !" 

CEL.  (To  Sganarelle}.  Pray,  sir,  how  came  you  to 
know  this  gentleman  who  went  away  just  now  and  spoke 
to  you  ? 

SCAN.  Alas !  madam,  it  is  not  I  who  am  acquainted 
with  him  ;  it  is  my  wife. 

CEL.  What  emotion  thus  disturbs  your  mind  ? 

SCAN.  Do  not  blame  me  ;  I  have  sufficient  cause  for  my 
sorrow  ;  permit  me  to  breathe  plenty  of  sighs. 

CEL.  What  can  be  the  reason  of  this  uncommon  grief? 

SCAN.  If  I  am  sad  it  is  not  for  a  trifle  :  I  challenge 
other  people  not  to  grieve,  if  they  found  themselves  in  my 
condition.  You  see  in  me  the  model  of  unhappy  husbands. 
Poor  Sganarelle's  honour  is  taken  from  him  ;  but  the  loss 
of  my  honour  would  be  small — they  deprive  me  of  my 
reputation  also. 

CEL.   How  do  they  do  that  ? 

SCAN.  That  fop  has  taken  the  liberty  to  cuckold  me — 
saving  your  presence,  madam — and  this  very  day  my  own 
eyes  have  been  witness  to  a  private  interview  between  him 
and  my  wife. 

CEL.  What  ?    He  who  just  now  .    .    . 

SCAN.  Ay,  ay,  it  is  he  who  brings  disgrace  upon  me ; 
he  is  in  love  with  my  wife,  and  my  wife  is  in  love  with 
him. 

CEL.  Ah  !  I  find  I  was  right  when  I  thought  his  return- 
ing secretly  only  concealed  some  base  design  ;  I  trembled 
the  minute  I  saw  him,  from  a  sad  foreboding  of  what 
would  happen. 

SCAN.  You  espouse  my  cause  with  too  much  kindness, 
but  everybody  is  not  so  charitably  disposed ;  for  many, 
who  have  already  heard  of  my  sufferings,  so  far  from  taking 
my  part,  only  laugh  at  me. 

CEL.  Can  anything  be  more  base  than  this  vile  deed  ? 
or  can  a  punishment  be  discovered  such  as  he  deserves  ? 
Does  he  think  he  is  worthy  to  live,  after  polluting  himself 
with  such  treachery?  O  Heaven  !  is  it  possible? 

SCAN.  It  is  but  too  true. 

CEL.  O  traitor,  villain,  deceitful,  faithless  wretch! 


192  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCENE  xvn. 

SCAN.  What  a  kind-hearted  creature  ! 

CEL.  No,  no,  hell  has  not  tortures  enough  to  punish  you 
sufficiently  for  your  guilt ! 

SCAN.   How  well  she  talks ! 

CEL.  Thus  to  abuse  both  innocence  and  goodness ! 

SCAN.   (Sighing  aloud).     Ah  ! 

CEL.  A  heart  which  never  did  the  slightest  action  de- 
serving of  being  treated  with  such  insult  and  contempt. 

SCAN.  That's  true. 

CEL.  Who  far  from  .  .  .  but  it  is  too  much;  nor  can 
this  heart  endure  the  thought  of  it  without  feeling  on  the 
rack. 

SCAN.  My  dear  lady,  do  not  distress  yourself  so  much ; 
it  pierces  my  very  soul  to  see  you  grieve  so  at  my  misfor- 
tune. 

CEL.  But  do  not  deceive  yourself  so  far  as  to  fancy  that 
I  shall  sit  down  and  do  nothing  but  lament ;  no,  my  heart 
knows  how  to  act  in  order  to  be  avenged ;  nothing  can 
divert  me  from  it ;  I  go  to  prepare  everything. 

SCENE  XVII. — SGANARELLE,  alone. 

May  Heaven  keep  her  for  ever  out  of  harm's  way  !  How 
kind  of  her  to  wish  to  avenge  me !  Her  anger  at  my  dis- 
honour plainly  teaches  me  how  to  act.  Nobody  should  bear 
such  affronts  as  these  tamely,  unless  indeed  he  be  a  fool. 
Let  us  therefore  hasten  to  hunt  out  this  "rascal  who  has 
insulted  me,  and  let  me  prove  my  courage  by  avenging  my 
dishonour.12  I  will  teach  you,  you  rogue,  to  laugh  at  my 
expense,  and  to  cuckold  people  without  showing  them  any 
respect.  (After  going  three  or  four  steps  he  comes  back 
again.}  But  gently,  if  you  please,  this  man  looks  as 
if  he  were  very  hot-headed  and  passionate ;  he  may, 
perhaps,  heaping  one  insult  upon  another,  ornament  my 

12  A  similar  adventure  is  told  of  the  renowned  fabulist  La  Fontaine. 
One  day  some  one  informed  him  that  Poignan,  a  retired  captain  of  dra- 
goons and  one  of  his  friends,  was  by  far  too  intimate  with  Madame  La 
Fontaine,  and  that  to  avenge  his  dishonour  he  ought  to  fight  a  duel  with 
him.  La  Fontaine  calls  upon  Poignan  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
tells  him  to  dress,  takes  him  out  of  town,  and  then  coolly  says  "that  he 
has  been  advised  to  fight  a  duel  with  him  in  order  to  avenge  his  wounded 
honour."  Soon  La  Fontaine's  sword  flies  out  of  his  hand,  the  friends  go 
to  breakfast,  and  the  whole  affair  is  at  an  end. 


SCBNK  xvii.]  THE   SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  193 

back  as  well  as  he  has  done  my  brow.13  I  detest,  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  these  fiery  tempers,  and  vastly  prefer 
peaceable  people.  I  do  not  care  to  beat  for  fear  of  being 
beaten;  a  gentle  disposition  was  always  my  predominant 
virtue.  But  my  honour  tells  me  that  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary I  should  avenge  such  an  outrage  as  this.  Let  honour 
say  whatever  it  likes,  the  deuce  take  him  who  listens. 
Suppose  now  I  should  play  the  hero,  and  receive  for  my 
pains  an  ugly  thrust  with  a  piece  of  cold  steel  quite  through 
my  stomach ;  when  the  news  of  my  death  spreads  through 
the  whole  town,  tell  me  then,  my  honour,  shall  you  be  the 
better  of  it.  u  The  grave  is  too  melancholy  an  abode,  and 
too  unwholesome  for  people  who  are  afraid  of  the  colic ;  as 
for  me,  I  find,  all  things  considered,  that  it  is,  after  all, 
better  to  be  a  cuckold  than  to  be  dead.  What  harm  is 
there  in  it?  Does  it  make  a  man's  legs  crooked?  does  it 
spoil  his  shape  ?  The  plague  take  him  who  first  invented 
being  grieved  about  such  a  delusion,  linking  the  honour 
of  the  wisest  man  to  anything  a  fickle  woman  may  do. 
Since  every  person  is  rightly  held  responsible  for  his  own 
crimes,  how  can  our  honour,  in  this  case,  be  considered 
criminal  ?  We  are  blamed  for  the  actions  of  other  people. 
If  our  wives  have  an  intrigue  with  any  man,  without  our 
knowledge,  all  the  mischief  must  fall  upon  our  backs ; 
they  commit  the  crime  and  we  are  reckoned  guilty.  It  is 
a  villainous  abuse,  and  indeed  Government  should  remedy 
such  injustice.  Have  we  not  enough  of  other  accidents 
that  happen  to  us  whether  we  like  them  or  not?  Do  not 
quarrels,  lawsuits,  hunger,  thirst,  and  sickness  sufficiently 
disturb  the  even  tenour  of  our  lives?  and  yet  we  must 
stupidly  get  it  into  our  heads  to  grieve  about  something 
which  has  no  foundation.  Let  us  laugh  at  it,  despise  such 
idle  fears,  and  be  above  sighs  and  tears.  If  my  wife  has 
done  amiss,  let  her  cry  as  much  as  she  likes,  but  why 
should  I  weep  when  I  have  done  no  wrong  ?  After  all,  I 
am  not  the  only  one  of  my  fraternity,  and  that  should 

18  In  the  original  there  is  a  play  on  words  which  cannot  be  rendered  in 
English.  //  pourrait  bien.  .  .  .  charger  de  bois  man  dos  cumme,  «'/  a  fait 
man  front.  Bois  means  "  stick  "  and  "  stags'  antlers." 

14  Compare  in  Shakespeare's  Part  First  of  King  Henry  IV.  v.  i,  Fal- 
staff's  speech  about  honour. 

VOL.  I.  N 


194  SGANARELLE  ;   OR,  [SCBNK  xx. 

console  me  a  little.  Many  people  of  rank  see  their  wives 
cajoled,  and  do  not  say  a  word  about  it.  Why  should  I 
then  try  to  pick  a  quarrel  for  an  affront,  which  is  but  a 
mere  trifle?  They  will  call  me  a  fool  for  not  avenging 
myself,  but  I  should  be  a  much  greater  fool  to  rush  on  my 
own  destruction.  (Putting  his  hand  upon  his  stomach).  I 
feel,  however,  my  bile  is  stirred  up  here;  it  almost  per- 
suades me  to  do  some  manly  action.  Ay,  anger  gets  the 
better  of  me ;  it  is  rather  too  much  of  a  good  thing  to  be 
a  coward  too  !  I  am  resolved  to  be  revenged  upon  the 
thief  of  my  honour.  Full  of  the  passion  which  excites  my 
ardour,  and  in  order  to  make  a  beginning,  I  shall  go  and 
tell  everywhere  that  he  lies  with  my  wife. 

SCENE  XVIII. — GORGIBUS,  CELIA,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

CEL.  Yes,  I  will  yield  willingly  to  so  just  a  law,  father  ; 
you  can  freely  dispose  of  my  heart  and  my  hand  ;  I  will 
sign  the  marriage  contract  whenever  you  please,  for  I  am 
now  determined  to  perform  my  duty.  I  can  command 
my  own  inclinations,  and  shall  do  whatever  you  order  me. 

GORG.  How  she  pleases  me  by  talking  in  this  manner  ! 
Upon  my  word !  I  am  so  delighted  that  I  would  imme- 
diately cut  a  caper  or  two,  were  people  not  looking  on, 
who  would  laugh  at  it.  Come  hither,  I  say,  and  let  me 
embrace  you ;  there  is  no  harm  in  that ;  a  father  may  kiss 
his  daughter  whenever  he  likes,  without  giving  any  occa- 
sion for  scandal.  Well,  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  you  so 
obedient  has  made  me  twenty  years  younger. 

SCENE  XIX. — CELIA,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

MAID.  This  change  surprises  me. 

CEL.  When  you  come  to  know  why  I  act  thus,  you  will 
esteem  me  for  it. 

MAID.  Perhaps  so. 

CEL.  Know  then  that  Lelio  has  wounded  my  heart  by 
his  treacherous  behaviour,  and  has  been  in  this  neighbour- 
hood without  .  .  . 

MAID.  Here  he  comes. 

SCENE  XX. — LELIO,  CELIA,  CELIA'S  MAID. 
LEL.  Before  I  take  my  leave  of  you  for  ever,  I  will  at 
least  here  tell  you  that  .    .    . 


SCENBXXI.]  THE  SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  195 

CEL.  What!  are  you  insolent  enough  to  speak  to  me 
again? 

LEL.  I  own  my  insolence  is  great,  and  yet  your  choice 
is  such  I  should  not  be  greatly  to  blame  if  I  upbraided 
you.  Live,  live  contented,  and  laugh  when  you  think  of 
me,  as  well  as  your  worthy  husband,  of  whom  you  have 
reason  to  be  proud. 

CEL.  Yes,  traitor,  I  will  live  so,  and  I  trust  most  earn- 
estly that  the  thought  of  my  happiness  may  disturb  you. 

LEL.  Why  this  outbreak  of  passion  ? 

CEL.  You  pretend  to  be  surprised,  and  ask  what  crimes 
you  have  committed  ? 

SCENE  XXI. — CELIA,  LELIO,  SGANARELLE  armed  cap-a-pie ; 
CELIA'S  MAID. 

SCAN.  I  wage  war,  a  war  of  extermination  against  this 
robber  of  my  honour,  who  without  mercy  has  sullied  my 
fair  name. 

CEL.  (To  Lelio,  pointing  to  Sganarelle).  Look  on  this 
man,  and  then  you  will  require  no  further  answer. 

LEL.  Ah  !    I  see. 

CEL.  A  mere  glance  at  him  is  sufficient  to  abash  you. 

LEL.  It  ought  rather  to  make  you  blush. 

SCAN.  My  wrath  is  now  disposed  to  vent  itself  upon 
some  one ;  my  courage  is  at  its  height ;  if  I  meet  him, 
there  will  be  blood  shed.  Yes,  I  have  sworn  to  kill  him, 
nothing  can  keep  me  from  doing  so.  Wherever  I  see  him 
I  will  dispatch  him.  {Drawing  his  sword  halfway  and 
approaching  Lelio).  Right  through  the  middle  of  his 
heart  I  shall  thrust  .  .  . 

LEL.  {Turning  round}.  Against  whom  do  you  bear 
such  a  grudge  ? 

SCAN.  Against  no  one. 

LEL.  Why  are  you  thus  in  armour  ? 

SCAN.  It  is  a  dress  I  put  on  to  keep  the  rain  off. 
(Aside).  Ah  !  what  a  satisfaction  it  would  be  for  me  to 
kill  him  !  Let  us  pluck  up  courage  to  do  it. 

LEL.  (  Turning  round  again).     Hey  ? 

SCAN.  I  did  not  speak.  (Aside,  boxing  his  own  ears, 
and  thumping  himself  to  raise  his  courage).  Ah  !  I  am 


196  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCENE  xxi. 

enraged  at  my  own  cowardice  !  Chicken-hearted  pol- 
troon ! 

CEL.  What  you  have  seen  ought  to  satisfy  you,  but  it 
appears  to  offend  you. 

LEL.  Yes,  through  him  I  know  you  are  guilty  of  the 
greatest  faithlessness  that  ever  wronged  a  faithful  lover's 
heart,  and  for  which  no  excuse  can  be  found. 

SCAN.  (Aside).  Why  have  I  not  a  little  more  cour- 
age? 

CEL.  Ah,  traitor,  speak  not  to  me  in  so  unmanly  and 
insolent  a  manner. 

SCAN.  (Aside].  You  see,  Sganarelle,  she  takes  up  your 
quarrel  :  courage,  my  lad,  be  a  trifle  vigorous.  Now,  be 
bold,  try  to  make  one  noble  effort  and  kill  him  whilst  his 
back  is  turned. 

LEL.  (Who  has  moved  accidentally  a  few  steps  back, 
meets  Sganarelle,  who  was  drawing  near  to  kill  him.  The 
latter  is  frightened,  and  retreats}.  Since  my  words  kindle 
your  wrath,  madam,  I  ought  to  show  my  satisfaction  with 
what  your  heart  approves,  and  here  commend  the  lovely 
choice  you  have  made. 

CEL.  Yes,  yes,  my  choice  is  such  as  cannot  be  blamed. 

LEL.  You  do  well  to  defend  it. 

SCAN.  No  doubt,  she  does  well  to  defend  my  rights, 
but  what  you  have  done,  sir,  is  not  according  to  the  laws; 
I  have  reason  to  complain ;  were  I  less  discreet,  much 
blood  would  be  shed. 

LEL.  Of  what  do  you  complain  ?     And  why  this   .  .  . 

SCAN.  Do  not  say  a  word  more.  You  know  too  well 
where  the  shoe  pinches  me.  But  conscience  and  a  care  for 
your  own  soul  should  remind  you  that  my  wife  is  my  wife, 
and  that  to  make  her  yours  under  my  very  nose  is  not 
acting  like  a  good  Christian. 

LEL.  Such  a  suspicion  is  mean  and  ridiculous  !  Har- 
bour no  scruples  on  that  point :  I  know  she  belongs  to 
you  ;  I  am  very  far  from  being  in  love  with  .  .  . 

CEL.  Oh  !  traitor  !  how  well  you  dissemble  ! 

LEL.  What !  do  you  imagine  I  foster  a  thought  which 
need  disturb  his  mind  ?  Would  you  slander  me  by  accu- 
sing me  of  such  a  cowardly  action  ? 

CEL.  Speak,  speak  to  himself;  he  can  enlighten  you. 


SCBNE  xxn.J  THE  SELF-DECEIVED    HUSBAND.  197 

SCAN.  ( To  Celid).  No,  no,  you  can  argue  much  better 
than  I  can,  and  have  treated  the  matter  in  the  right  way. 

SCENE  XXII. — CELIA,  LELIO,  SGANARELLE,  SGANAREI.LE'S 
WIFE,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

SCAN,  "s  WIFE.  (To  Celia).  I  am  not  inclined,  Madam, 
to  show  that  I  am  over-jealous  ;  but  I  am  no  fool,  and  can 
see  what  is  going  on.  There  are  certain  amours  which 
appear  very  strange ;  you  should  be  better  employed  than 
in  seducing  a  heart  which  ought  to  be  mine  alone. 

CEL.  This  declaration  of  her  love  is  plain  enough.15 

SCAN.  (To  his  wife).  Who  sent  for  you,  baggage?  You 
come  and  scold  her  because  she  takes  my  part,  whilst  you 
are  afraid  of  losing  your  gallant. 

CEL.  Do  not  suppose  anybody  has  a  mind  to  him. 
(Turning  towards  Lelio).  You  see  whether  I  have  told  a 
falsehood,  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it. 

LEL.  What  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

MAID.  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not  know  when  this  en- 
tanglement will  be  unravelled.  I  have  tried  for  a  pretty 
long  time  to  comprehend  it,  but  the  more  I  hear  the  less 
I  understand.  Really  I  think  I  must  interfere  at  last. 
(Placing  herself  between  Lelio  and  Celia),  Answer  me  one 
after  another,  and  (  To  Lelio}  allow  me  to  ask  what  do  you 
accuse  this  lady  of? 

LEL.  That  she  broke  her  word  and  forsook  me  for 
another.  As  soon  as  I  heard  she  was  going  to  be  married 
I  hastened  hither,  carried  away  by  an  irrepressible  love, 
and  not  believing  I  could  be  forgotten  ;  but  discovered, 
when  I  arrived  here,  that  she  was  married. 

MAID.   Married  !  To  whom  ? 

LEL.  (Pointing  to  Sganarelle).  To  him. 

MAID.   How  !  to  him  ? 

LEL.  Yes,  to  him. 

MAID.   Who  told  you  so  ? 

LEL.  Himself,  this  very  day. 

MAID.   (To  Sganarelle}.  Is  this  true? 

SCAN.  I?  I  told  him  I  was  married  to  my  own  wife. 

15  Some  commentators  think  it  is  Lelio  who  utters  these  words,  but  they 
are  clearly  Celia's. 


198  SGANARELLE;  OR,  [SCENE  XXH. 

LEL.  Just  now,  whilst  you  looked  at  my  picture,  you 
seemed  greatly  moved. 

SCAN.  True,  here  it  is. 

LEL.  (To  Sganarelle).  You  also  told  me  that  she, 
from  whose  hands  you  had  received  this  pledge  of  her 
love,  was  joined  to  you  in  the  bonds  of  wedlock. 

SCAN.  No  doubt  {pointing  to  his  wife),  for  I  snatched  it 
from  her,  and  should  not  have  discovered  her  wickedness 
had  I  not  done  so. 

SCAN. 's  WIFE.  What  do  you  mean  by  your  groundless 
complaint  ?  I  found  this  portrait  at  my  feet  by  accident. 
After  you  had  stormed  without  telling  me  the  cause  of 
your  rage,  I  saw  this  gentleman  (pointing  to  Lelio)  nearly 
fainting,  asked  him  to  come  in,  but  did  not  even  then 
discover  that  he  was  the  original  of  the  picture. 

CEL.  I  was  the  cause  of  the  portrait  being  lost ;  I  let  it 
fall  when  swooning,  and  when  you  (to  Sganarelle)  kindly 
carried  me  into  the  house. 

MAID.  You  see  that  without  my  help  you  had  still  been 
at  a  loss,  and  that  you  had  some  need  of  hellebore.16 

SCAN.  (Aside).  Shall  we  believe  all  this  ?  I  have  been 
very  much  frightened  for  my  brow. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  I  have  not  quite  recovered  from  my  fear ; 
however  agreeable  credulity  may  be,  I  am  loth  to  be  de- 
ceived. 

SCAN.  (To  his  wife).  Well,  let  us  mutually  suppose  our- 
selves to  be  people  of  honour.  I  risk  more  on  my  side 
than  you  do  on  yours ;  accept,  therefore,  without  much 
ado,  what  I  propose. 

SGAN.'S  WIFE.  Be  it  so,  but  wo  be  to  you  if  I  discover 
anything. 

CEL.  (To  Lelio,  after  whispering  together).  Ye  heavens  ! 
if  it  be  so,  what  have  I  done  ?  I  ought  to  fear  the  conse- 
quences of  my  own  anger  !  Thinking  you  false,  and  wish- 
ing to  be  avenged,  I  in  an  unhappy  moment  complied 
with  my  father's  wishes,  and  but  a  minute  since  engaged 
myself  to  marry  a  man  whose  hand,  until  then,  I  always 
had  refused.  I  have  made  a  promise  to  my  father,  and 
what  grieves  me  most  is  ...  But  I  see  him  coming. 

16  Among  the  ancients  the  helleborus  officinalis  or  orientalis  was  held  to 
cure  insanity  ;  hence  the  allusion. 


SCENE  xxiv.J  THE   SELF-DECEIVED   HUSBAND.  199 

LEL.  He  shall  keep  his  word  with  me. 

SCENE  XXIII. — GORGIBUS,  CELIA,  LELIO,  SGANARELLE, 
SGANARELLE'S  WIFE,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

LEL.  Sir,  you  see  I  have  returned  to  this  town,  inflamed 
with  the  same  ardour,  and  now  I  suppose  you  will  keep 
your  promise,  which  made  me  hope  to  marry  Celia,  and 
thus  reward  my  intense  love. 

GORG.  Sir,  whom  I  see  returned  to  this  town  inflamed 
with  the  same  ardour,  and  who  now  supposes  I  will  keep 
my  promise,  which  made  you  hope  to  marry  Celia,  and 
thus  reward  your  intense  love,  I  am  your  lordship's  very 
humble  servant. 

LEL.  What,  sir,  is  it  thus  you  frustrate  my  expecta- 
tions ? 

GORG.  Ay,  sir,  it  is  thus  I  do  my  duty,  and  my  daugh- 
ter obeys  me  too. 

CEL.  My  duty  compels  me,  father,  to  make  good  your 
promise  to  him. 

GORG.  Is  this  obeying  my  commands  as  a  daughter 
ought  to  do  ?  Just  now  you  were  very  kindly  disposed  to- 
wards Valere,  but  you  change  quickly  ...  I  see  his  father 
approaching,  who  certainly  comes  to  arrange  about  the 
marriage. 

SCENE  XXIV. — VILLEBREQUIN,  GORGIBUS,  CELIA,  LELIO, 
SGANARELLE,  SGANARELLE'S  WIFE,  CELIA'S  MAID. 

GORG.  What  brings  you  hither,  M.  Villebrequin  ? 

VILL.  An  important  secret,  which  I  only  discovered 
this  morning,  and  which  completely  prevents  me  from 
keeping  the  engagement  I  made  with  you.  My  son, 
whom  your  daughter  was  going  to  espouse,  has  deceived 
everybody,  and  been  secretly  married  these  four  months 
past  to  Lise.  Her  friends,  her  fortune,  and  her  family 
connections,  make  it  impossible  for  me  to  break  off  this 
alliance ;  and  hence  I  come  to  you  .  .  . 

GORG.  Pray,  say  no  more.  If  Valere  has  married  some 
one  else  without  your  permission,  I  cannot  disguise  from 
you,  that  I  myself  long  ago,  promised  my  daughter  Celia 
to  Lelio,  endowed  with  every  virtue,  and  that  his  return 


200        SGANARELLE;  OR,  THE  DECEIVED  HUSBAND.  [SCENE  xxiv. 

to-day  prevents  me  from  choosing  any  other  husband  for 
her. 

VILL.   Such  a  choice  pleases  me  very  much. 

LEL.  This  honest  intention  will  crown  my  days  with 
eternal  bliss. 

GORG.   Let  us  go  and  fix  the  day  for  the  wedding. 

SCAN.  (Alone).  Was  there  ever  a  man  who  had  more 
cause  to  think  himself  victimized?  You  perceive  that  in 
such  matters  the  strongest  probability  may  create  in  the 
mind  a  wrong  belief.  Therefore  remember,  never  to  be- 
lieve anything  even  if  you  should  see  everything. 


DON  GARCIE  DE  NAVARRE; 

ou, 
LE    PRINCE    JALOUX. 

COMEDIE    HEROIQUE    EN    CINQ    ACTES. 


DON  GARCIA  OF  NAVARRE 

OR. 
THE    JEALOUS    PRINCE. 

A  HEROIC  COMEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

(THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.} 

FEB.  4TH,  1 66 1. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


NOTHING  can  be  more  unlike  The  Pretentious  Young  Ladles  or  Sgana- 
relle  than  Moliere's  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre.  The  Theatre  du  Palais- 
Royal  had  opened  on  the  2oth  January,  1661,  with  The  Love-  Tiff  and 
Sganarelle,  but  as  the  young  wife  of  Louis  XIV.,  Maria  Theresa,  daugh- 
ter of  Philip  IV.,  King  of  Spain,  had  only  lately  arrived,  and  as  a  taste  for 
the  Spanish  drama  appeared  to  spring  up  anew  in  France,  Moliere 
thought  perhaps  that  a  heroic  comedy  in  that  style  might  meet  with  some 
success,  the  more  so  as  a  company  of  Spanish  actors  had  been  performing 
in  Paris  the  plays  of  Lope  de  Vega  and  Calderon,  since  the  24th  of  July, 
1660.  Therefore,  he  brought  out,  on  the  4th  of  February,  1661,  his  new 
play  of  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre.  It  is  said  that  there  exists  a  Spanish 
play  of  the  same  name,  of  which  the  author  is  unknown  ;  Moliere  seems 
to  have  partly  followed  an  Italian  comedy,  written  by  Giacinto  Andrea 
Cicognini,  under  the  name  of  Le  Gelosie  fortunata  del  principe  Rodrigo  ; 
the  style,  loftiness  and  delicacy  of  expression  are  peculiar  to  the  French 
dramatist. 

Don  Garcia  of  Navarre  met  with  no  favourable  reception,  though  the 
author  played  the  part  of  the  hero.  He  withdrew  it  after  five  representa- 
tions, but  still  did  not  think  its  condemnation  final,  for  he  played  it  again 
before  the  King  on  the  zgth  of  September,  1662,  in  Octob'er,  1663,  at 
Chantilly,  and  twice  at  Versailles.  He  attempted  it  anew  on  the  theatre 
of  the  Palace-Royal  in  the  month  of  November,  1663 ;  but  as  it  was 
everywhere  unfavourably  received,  he  resolved  never  to  play  it  more,  and 
even  would  not  print  it,  for  it  was  only  published  after  his  death  in  1682. 
He  inserted  some  parts  of  this  comedy  in  the  Misanthrope,  the  Femmes 
Savantes,  Amphitryon,  Tartuffe,  and  les  Fachevx,  where  they  produced 
great  effect. 

Though  it  has  not  gained  a  place  on  the  French  stage,  it  nevertheless 
possesses  some  fine  passages.  Moliere  wished  to  create  a  counterpart  of 
Sganarelle,  the  type  of  ridiculous  jealousy,  and  to  delineate  passionate 
jealousy,  its  doubts,  fears,  perplexities  and  anxieties,  and  in  this  he  has 
succeeded  admirably.  However  noble-minded  Don  Garcia  may  be,  there 
rages  within  his  soul  a  mean  passion  which  tortures  and  degrades  him  in- 
cessantly. When  at  last  he  is  banished  from  the  presence  of  the  fair  object 
of  his  love,  he  resolves  to  brave  death  by  devoting  himself  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  her  foe  ;  but  he  is  forestalled  by  his  presumed  rival,  Don  Alphonso, 
who  turns  out  to  be  the  brother  of  his  mistress,  and  she  receives  him  once 

203 


204  DON   GARCIA   OF    NAVARRE  ; 

again  and  for  ever  in  her  favour.  The  delineation  of  all  these  passions  is 
too  fine-spun,  too  argumentative  to  please  the  general  public  ;  the  style  is 
sometimes  stilted,  yet  passages  of  great  beauty  may  be  found  in  it. 
Moreover  the  jealousy  expressed  by  Don  Garcia  is  neither  sufficiently  ter- 
rible to  frighten,  nor  ridiculous  enough  to  amuse  the  audience  ;  he  always 
speaks  and  acts  as  a  prince,  and  hence,  he  sometimes  becomes  royally  mo- 
notonous. 

Some  scenes  of  this  play  have  been  imitated  in  The  Masquerade,  a 
comedy,  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane,  1719,  London, ''  printed 
for  Bernard  Linton,  between  the  Temple  Gate,"  which  was  itself  partly 
borrowed  from  Shirley's  Lady  of  Pleasure.  The  comedy  was  written  by 
Mr.  Charles  Johnson,  who  "was  originally  bred  to  the  law,  and  was  a 
member  of  the  Middle  Temple  ;  but  being  a  great  admirer  of  the  Muses, 
and  finding  in  himself  a  strong  propensity  to  dramatic  writing,  he  quitted 
the  studious  labour  of  the  one,  for  the  more  spirited  amusements  of  the 
other;  and,  by  contracting  an  intimacy  with  Mr.Wilks,  found  means,  through 
that  gentleman's  interest,  to  get  his  plays  on  the  stage  without  much  diffi- 
culty .  .  .  he,  by  a  polite  and  modest  behaviour  formed  so  extensive 
an  acquaintance  and  intimacy,  as  constantly  ensured  him  great  emolu- 
'  ments  on  his  benefit  night  j  by  which  means,  being  a  man  of  economy, 
he  was  enabled  to  subsist  very  genteelly.  He  at  length  married  a  young 
widow,  with  a  tolerable  fortune ;  on  which  he  set  up  a  tavern  in  Bow 
Street,  Covent  Garden,  but  quitted  business  at  his  wife's  death,  and 
lived  privately  on  an  easy  competence  he  had  saved.  .  .  .  He  was  born 
in  1679  .  .  .  but  he  did  not  die  till  March  n,  1748." 1 

The  Masquerade  is  a  clever  comedy,  rather  free  in  language  and  thought, 
chiefly  about  the  danger  of  gambling.  Some  of  the  sayings  are  very 
pointed.  It  has  been  stated  that  the  author  frequented  the  principal  cof- 
fee-houses in  town,  and  picked  up  many  pungent  remarks  there  ;  however 
this  may  be,  the  literary  men  who  at  the  present  time  frequent  clubs,  have, 
I  am  afraid,  not  the  same  chance.  As  a  specimen  of  free  and  easy — 
rather  too  easy — wit,  let  me  mention  the  remarks  of  Mr.  Smart  (Act  I.) 
on  the  way  he  passed  the  night,  and  in  what  manner,  "  Nine  persons  are 
kept  handsomely  out  of  the  sober  income  of  one  hundred  pounds  a  year." 
I  also  observe  the  name  of  an  old  acquaintance  in  this  play.  Thackeray's 
hero  in  the  Memoirs  of  Mr.  Charles  J.  Yellowplush  is  "  the  Honourable 
Algernon  Percy  Deuceace,  youngest  and  fifth  son  of  the  Earl  of  Crabs,'1 
and  in  The  Masquerade  (Act  III.  Sc.  i)  Mr.  Ombre  says  :  "  Did  you  not 
observe  an  old  decay'd  rake  that  stood  next  the  box-keeper  yonder  .  .  . 
they  call  him  Sir  Timothy  Deuxace  ;  that  wretch  has  play'd  off  one  of  the 
best  families  in  Europe — he  has  thrown  away  all  his  posterity,  and  reduced 
20,000  acres  of  wood-land,  arable,  meadow,  and  pasture  within  the  narrow 
circumference  of  an  oaken  table  of  eight  foot."  The  Masquerade  as  the 
title  of  the  play  is  a  misnomer,  for  it  does  not  conduce  at  all  to  the  plot. 

We  give  the  greater  part  of  the  Prologue  to  The  Masquerade,  spoken 
by  Mr.  Wilks  :— 

The  Poet,  who  must  paint  by  Nature's  Laws, 
If  he  wou'd  merit  what  he  begs,  Applause  ; 
Surveys  your  changing  Pleasures  with  Surprise, 
Sees  each  new  Day  some  new  Diversion  rise  ; 
Hither.thro'  all  the  Quarters  of  the  Sky,  "| 

Fresh  Rooks  in   Flocks  from  ev'ry  Nation  hye,    > 
To  us,  the  Cullies  of  the  Globe,  they  fly  :  J 


1  Biographia  Dramatica,  by  Baker,  Reed  and  Jones,  1812,  Vol.  I.   Part  i. 


OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  205 

French,  Spaniards,  Switzers  ;  This  Man  dines  on  Fire 

And  swallows  Brimstone  to  your  Heart's  Desire  ; 

Another,  Handless,  Footless,  Haifa  Man, 

Does,  Wou'd  you  think  it?  what  no  Whole  one  can, 

A  Spaniard  next,  taught  an  Italian  Frown, 

Boldly  declares  he'll  stare  all  Europe  down  : 

His  tortured  Muscles  pleas'd  our  English  Fools  ;  - 

Why  wou'd  the  Sot  engage  with  English  Bulls  ? 

Our  English  Bulls  are  Hereticks  uncivil, 

They'd  toss  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  the  Devil  : 

'Twas  stupidly  contrived  of  Don  Grimace, 

To  hope  to  fright  'em  with  an  ugly  Face. 

And  yet,  tho'  these  Exotick  Monsters  please, 

We  must  with  humble  Gratitude  confess, 

To  you  alone  'tis  due,  that  in  this  Age, 

Good  Sense  still  triumphs  on  the  British  Stage  : 

Shakespear  beholds  with  Joy  his  Sons  inherit 

His  good  old  Plays,  with  good  old  Bess's  Spirit. 

Be  wise  and  merry,  while  you  keep  that  Tether  ; 

Nonsense  and  Slavery  must  die  together. 

*  In  the  rival  House,  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields  Theatre,  Rich  was  bringing  out  Pan- 
tomimes, which,  by  the  fertility  of  his  invention,  the  excellency  of  his  own  perform- 
ance, and  the  introduction  of  foreign  performers,  drew  nightly  crowded  houses 
— hence  the  allusion. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 

DON  GARCIA,  Prince  of  Navarre,  in  love  with  Elvira.* 
DON  ALPHONSO,  Prince  of  Leon,  thought  to  be  Prince  of 

Castile,  under  the  name  of  Don  Silvio. 
DON  ALVAREZ,  confidant  of  Don  Garcia,  in  love  with  Eliza. 
DON  LOPEZ,  another  confidant  of  Don  Garcia,  in  love  with 

Eliza. 

DON  PEDRO,  gentleman-usher  to  Inez. 
A  PAGE. 

DONNA  ELVIRA,  Princess  of  Leon. 

DONNA  INEZ,  a  Countess,  in  love  with  Don  Silvio,  beloved 

by  Mauregat,  the  usurper  of  the  Kingdom  of  Leon. 
ELIZA,  confidant  to  Elvira. 

Scene. — ASTORGA,  a  city  of  Spain,  in  the  kingdom  of  Leon. 


8  In  the  inventory  taken  after  Moliere's  death  mention  is  made  of 
"  Spanish  dress,  breeches,  cloth  cloak,  and  a  satin  doublet,  the  whole 
adorned  with  silk  embroideries."  This  is  probably  the  dress  in  which 
Moliere  played  Don  Garcia. 


DON    GARCIA   OF    NAVARRE; 

OR,  THE  JEALOUS  PRINCE. 

(DON  GARCIE  DE  NAVARRE,   OU  LE  PRINCE  JALOUX.} 


ACT  I. 
SCENE  I. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  ELIZA. 

ELVIRA.  No,  the  hidden  feelings  of  my  heart  were  not 
regulated  by  choice:  whatever  the  Prince  may  be,  there  is 
nothing  in  him  to  make  me  prefer  his  love.  Don  Silvio 
shows,  as  well  as  he,  all  the  qualities  of  a  renowned  hero. 
The  same  noble  virtues  and  the  same  high  birth  made  me 
hesitate  whom  to  prefer.  If  aught  but  merit  could  gain 
my  heart,  the  conqueror  were  yet  to  be  named;  but  these 
chains,  with  which  Heaven  keeps  our  souls  enslaved,  de- 
cide me,  and,  though  I  esteem  both  equally,  my  love  is 
given  to  Don  Garcia. 

ELIZA.  The  love  which  you  feel  for  him,  seems  to  have 
very  little  influenced  your  actions,  since  I,  myself,  madam, 
could  not  for  a  long  time  discover  which  of  the  two  rivals 
was  the  favoured  one. 

ELV.  Their  noble  rivalry  in  love,  Eliza,  caused  a  severe 
struggle  in  my  breast.  When  I  looked  on  the  one,  I  felt 
no  pangs,  because  I  followed  my  own  tender  inclination ; 
but  when  I  thought  I  sacrificed  the  other,  I  considered  I 
acted  very  unjustly ;  and  was  of  opinion,  that  Don 
Silvio's  passion,  after  all,  deserved  a  happier  destiny.  I 
also  reflected  that  a  daughter  of  the  late  King  of  Leon 
owed  some  obligation  to  the  house  of  Castile;  that  an 
intimate  friendship  had  long  knit  together  the  interests 
of  his  father  and  mine.  Thus,  the  more  the  one  made 
VOL.  i.  o  209 


210  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  i. 

progress  in  my  heart,  the  more  I  lamented  the  ill  success 
of  the  other.  Full  of  pity,  I  listened  to  his  ardent  sighs, 
and  received  his  vows  politely;  thus  in  a  slight  degree  I 
tried  to  make  amends  for  the  opposition  his  love  met  with 
in  my  heart. 

EL.  But  since  you  have  been  informed  he  previously 
loved  another,  your  mind  ought  to  be  at  rest.  Before  he 
loved  you,  Donna  Inez  had  received  the  homage  of  his 
heart.  As  she  is  your  most  intimate  friend,  and  has  told 
you  this  secret,  you  are  free  to  bestow  your  love  upon 
whom  you  wish,  and  cover  your  refusal  to  listen  to  him 
under  the  guise  of  friendship  for  her. 

ELV.  It  is  true,  I  ought  to  be  pleased  with  the  news  of 
Don  Silvio's  faithlessness,  because  my  heart,  that  was  tor- 
mented by  his  love,  is  now  at  liberty  to  reject  it ;  can 
justly  refuse  his  addresses,  and,  without  scruple,  grant  its 
favours  to  another.  But  what  delight  can  my  heart  feel, 
if  it  suffers  severely  from  other  pangs;  if  the  continual 
weakness  of  a  jealous  prince  receives  my  tenderness  with 
disdain,  compels  me  justly  to  give  way  to  anger,  and  thus 
to  break  off  all  intercourse  between  us? 

EL.  But  as  he  has  never  been  told  that  you  love  him, 
how  can  he  be  guilty  if  he  disbelieves  in  his  happiness? 
And  does  not  that  which  could  flatter  his  rival's  expecta- 
tions warrant  him  to  suspect  your  affection? 

ELV.  No,  no ;  nothing  can  excuse  the  strange  madness 
of  his  gloomy  and  unmanly  jealousy;  I  have  told  him  but 
too  clearly,  by  my  actions,  that  he  can  indeed  flatter  him- 
self with  the  happiness  of  being  beloved.  Even  if  we  do 
not  speak,  there  are  other  interpreters  which  clearly  lay 
bare  our  secret  feelings.  A  sigh,  a  glance,  a  mere  blush, 
silence  itself,  is  enough  to  show  the  impulses  of  a  heart. 
In  love,  everything  speaks :  in  a  case  like  this,  the  smallest 
glimmer  ought  to  throw  a  great  light  upon  such  a  subject, 
since  the  honour  which  sways  our  sex  forbids  us  ever  to 
discover  all  we  feel.  I  have,  I  own,  endeavoured  so  to 
guide  my  conduct,  that  I  should  behold  their  merits  with 
an  unprejudiced  eye.  But  how  vainly  do  we  strive  against 
our  inclinations !  How  easy  is  it  to  perceive  the  difference 
between  those  favours  that  are  bestowed  out  of  mere  po- 
liteness, and  such  as  spring  from  the  heart!  The  first 


SCENE  i. ]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  211 

seem  always  forced ;  the  latter,  alas !  are  granted  without 
thinking,  like  those  pure  and  limpid  streams  which  spon- 
taneously flow  from  their  native  sources.  Though  the 
feelings  of  pity  I  showed  for  Don  Silvio  moved  the  Prince, 
yet  I  unwittingly  betrayed  their  shallowness,  whilst  my 
very  looks,  during  this  torture,  always  told  him  more  than 
I  desired  they  should. 

EL.  Though  the  suspicions  of  that  illustrious  lover  have 
no  foundation — for  you  tell  me  so — they  at  least  prove 
that  he  is  greatly  smitten  :  some  would  rejoice  at  what  you 
complain  of.  Jealousy  may  be  odious  when  it  proceeds 
from  a  love  which  displeases  us  ;  but  when  we  return  that 
love,  such  feelings  should  delight  us.  It  is  the  best  way 
in  which  a  lover  can  express  his  passion  ;  the  more  jealous 
he  is  the  more  we  ought  to  love  him.  Therefore  since  in 
your  soul  a  magnanimous  Prince  .  .  . 

ELV.  Ah  !  do  not  bring  forward  such  a  strange  maxim. 
Jealousy  is  always  odious  and  monstrous  ;  nothing  can 
soften  its  injurious  attacks  ;  the  dearer  the  object  of  our 
love  is  to  us,  the  more  deeply  we  feel  its  offensive  attempts. 
To  see  a  passionate  Prince,  losing  every  moment  that  re- 
spect with  which  love  inspires  its  real  votaries ;  to  see  him, 
when  his  whole  mind  is  a  prey  to  jealousy,  finding  fault 
either  with  what  I  like  or  dislike,  and  explaining  every 
look  of  mine  in  favour  of  a  rival  !*  No,  no  !  such  suspi- 
cions are  too  insulting,  and  I  tell  you  my  thoughts  with- 
out disguise.  I  love  Don  Garcia  ;  he  alone  can  fascinate 
a  generous  heart ;  his  courage  in  Leon  has  nobly  proved 
his  passion  for  me  ;  he  dared  on  my  account  the  greatest 
dangers,  freed  me  from  the  toils  of  cowardly  tyrants,  and 
protected  me  against  the  horrors  of  an  unworthy  alliance 
by  placing  me  within  these  strong  walls.  Nor  will  I  deny 
but  that  I  should  have  regretted  that  I  owed  my  deliver- 
ance to  any  other ;  for  an  enamoured  heart  feels  an  ex- 
treme pleasure,  Eliza,  in  being  under  some  obligations  to 
the  object  beloved  ;  its  faint  flame  becomes  stronger  and 
brighter  when  it  thinks  it  can  discharge  them  by  granting 
some  favours.  Yes,  I  am  charmed  that  he  assisted  me  and 

*  Moliere  has  expressed  the  same  thoughts  differently  in  The  Bores, 
Act  ii.  scene  4. 


212  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  I. 

risked  his  life  for  me,  for  this  seems  to  give  his  passion  a  right 
of  conquest ;  I  rej'oice  that  the  danger  I  was  in  threw  me  into 
his  hands.  If  common  reports  be  true,  and  Heaven  should 
grant  my  brother's  return,  I  wish  fervently,  and  with  all 
my  heart,  that  his  arm  may  aid  my  brother  to  recover  his 
throne,  and  punish  a  traitor ;  that  his  heroic  valour  may 
be  successful,  and  thus  deserve  my  brother's  utmost  grati- 
tude. But  for  all  this,  if  he  continues  to  rouse  my  anger; 
if  he  does  not  lay  aside  his  jealousy,  and  obey  me  in  what- 
ever I  command,  he  in  vain  aspires  to  the  hand  of  Donna 
Elvira.  Marriage  can  never  unite  us  ;  for  I  abhor  bonds, 
which,  undoubtedly,  would  then  make  a  hell  upon  earth 
for  both  of  us. 

EL.  Although  one  may  hold  different  opinions,  the 
Prince,  Madam,  should  conform  himself  to  your  desires  ; 
they  are  so  clearly  set  down  in  your  note  that,  when  he 
sees  them  thus  explained,  he  ... 

ELV.  This  letter,  Eliza,  shall  not  be  employed  for  such 
a  purpose.  It  will  be  better  to  tell  him  what  I  think  of 
his  conduct.  When  we  favor  a  lover  by  writing  to  him, 
we  leave  in  his  hands  too  flagrant  proofs  of  our  inclina- 
tion. Therefore  take  care  that  that  letter  is  not  delivered 
to  the  Prince. 

EL.  Your  will  is  law ;  yet  I  cannot  help  wondering 
that  Heaven  has  made  people's  minds  so  unlike,  and  that 
what  some  consider  an  insult  should  be  viewed  with  a  dif- 
ferent eye  by  others.  As  for  me  I  should  think  myself 
very  fortunate  if  I  had  a  lover  who  could  be  jealous,  for  his 
uneasiness  would  give  me  satisfaction.  That  which  often 
vexes  me  is  to  see  Don  Alvarez  give  himself  no  concern 
about  me. 

ELV.  We  did  not  think  he  was  so  near  us.  Here  he 
comes. 

SCENE  II. —  DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  ALVAREZ,  ELIZA. 

ELV.  Your  return  surprises  me.  What  tidings  do  you 
bring  ?  Is  Don  Alphonso  coming,  and  when  may  we  ex- 
pect him  ? 

ALV.  Yes,  Madam;  the  time  has  arrived  when  your 
brother,  brought  up  in  Castile,  will  get  his  own  again. 
Hitherto,  the  cautious  Don  Louis,  to  whom  the  late  King, 


SCENE  m.J  OR,  THE  JEALOUS    PRINCE.  213 

on  his  death-bed,  entrusted  the  care  of  Don  Alphonso, 
has  concealed  his  rank  from  every  one,  in  order  to  save 
him  from  the  fury  of  the  traitor  Mauregat.  Though  the 
miserable  but  successful  tyrant  has  often  inquired  after 
him,  under  pretence  of  restoring  him  to  the  throne,  yet 
Don  Louis,  who  is  full  of  prudence,  would  never  trust  to 
Mauregat's  pretended  feelings  for  justice,  with  which  he 
tried  to  allure  him.  But  as  the  people  became  enraged  at 
the  violence  which  a  usurper  would  have  offered  you, 
generous  old  Don  Louis  thought  it  time  to  try  what  could 
be  done  after  twenty  years'  expectation.  He  has  sounded 
Leon ;  his  faithful  emissaries  have  sought  to  influence 
the  minds  of  great  and  small.  Whilst  Castile  was  arming 
ten  thousand  men  to  restore  that  Prince  so  wished  for  by 
his  people,  Don  Louis  caused  a  report  to  be  noised  abroad 
that  the  renowned  Don  Alphonso  was  coming,  but  that 
he  would  not  produce  him  save  at  the  head  of  an  army, 
and  completely  ready  to  launch  the  avenging  thunder- 
bolts at  the  vile  usurper's  head.  Leon  is  besieged,  and 
Don  Silvio  himself  commands  the  auxiliary  forces,  with 
which  his  father  aids  you. 

ELV.  We  may  flatter  ourselves  that  our  expectations  will 
be  realized,  but  I  am  afraid  my  brother  will  owe  Don  Silvio 
too  heavy  a  debt.6 

ALV.  But,  Madam,  is  it  not  strange  that,  notwithstand- 
ing the  storm  which  the  usurper  of  your  throne  hears 
growling  over  his  head,  all  the  advices  from  Leon  agree 
that  he  is  going  to  marry  the  Countess  Inez  ? 

ELV.  By  allying  himself  to  the  high-born  maiden,  he 
hopes  to  obtain  the  support  of  her  powerful  family.  I  am 
rather  uneasy  that  of  late  I  have  heard  nothing  of  her.  But 
she  has  always  shown  an  inveterate  dislike  to  that  tyrant. 

EL.  Feelings  of  honour  and  tenderness  will  cause  her  to 
refuse  the  marriage  they  urge  upon  her,  for  .  .  . 

ALV.  The  Prince  is  coming  here. 

SCENE  III. — DON  GARCIA,  DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  ALVAREZ, 

ELIZA. 
GARC.  I  come,  Madam  to  rejoice  with  you  in  the  good 

6  Donna  Elvira  is  afraid  that  Don  Alphonso  will  owe  Don  Silvio  a 
debt  so  heavy,  that  he  will  only  be  able  to  repay  it  by  the  gift  of  her  hand. 


214  DON   GARCIA  OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  i. 

tidings  you  have  just  heard.  Your  brother,  who  threatens 
a  tyrant  stained  with  crimes,  allows  me  to  hope  that  my 
love  may  one  day  be  returned,  and  offers  to  my  arm  an 
opportunity  to  acquire  glory  in  fresh  dangers  for  the  sake 
of  your  lovely  eyes.  If  Heaven  proves  propitious  I  will 
gain  amidst  these  dangers  a  victory,  which  divine  justice 
owes  to  you,  which  will  lay  treachery  at  your  feet,  and 
restore  to  your  family  its  former  dignity.  But  what  pleases 
me  still  more  amidst  these  cherished  expectations  is  that 
Heaven  restores  you  this  brother  to  be  King ;  for  now  my 
love  may  openly  declare  itself,  without  being  accused  of 
seeking  to  gain  a  crown  whilst  striving  to  obtain  your  hand. 
Yes,  my  heart  desires  nothing  more  than  to  show  before 
the  whole  world  that  in  you  it  values  but  yourself;  if  I 
may  say  so  without  giving  offence,  a  hundred  times  have 
I  wished  you  were  of  less  rank.  Loving  you  as  I  do  I 
could  have  desired  that  your  divine  charms  had  fallen  to 
the  lot  of  some  one  born  in  a  humbler  station,  that  I 
might  unselfishly  proffer  my  heart,  and  thus  make  amends 
to  you  for  Heaven's  injustice,  so  that  you  might  owe  to  my 
love  the  homage  due  to  your  birth.'  But  since  Heaven  has 
forestalled  me,  and  deprives  me  of  the  privilege  of  proving 
my  love,  do  not  take  it  amiss  that  my  amorous  flames  look 
for  some  slight  encouragement  when  I  shall  have  killed  the 
tyrant,  whom  I  am  ready  to  encounter;  suffer  me  by  noble 
services  favourably  to  dispose  the  minds  of  a  brother  and 
of  a  whole  nation  towards  me. 

ELY.  I  know,  Prince,  that  by  avenging  our  wrongs  you 
can  make  a  hundred  deeds  of  daring  speak  for  your  love. 
But  the  favour  of  a  brother  and  the  gratitude  of  a  nation 
are  not  sufficient  to  reward  you  ;  Elvira  is  not  to  be  ob- 
tained by  such  efforts ;  there  is  yet  a  stronger  obstacle  to 
overcome. 

GARC.  Yes,  Madam,  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  know 
very  well  that  my  heart  sighs  in  vain  for  you ;  neither  do 
I  ignore  the  powerful  obstacle  against  my  love,  though 
you  name  it  not. 

ELV.   Often  we  hear  badly  when  we  think  we  hear  well. 

6  The  sentence  from  "  Yes,  my  heart,"  &c.,  until  "  your  birth "  is 
nearly  the  same  as  the  words  addressed  by  Alceste  to  Celimene  in  the 
Misanthrope,  Act  iv.  Sc.  3  (see  Vol.  II.) 


SCENE  in.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS    PRINCE.  21$ 

Too  much  ardour,  Prince,  may  lead  us  into  mistakes. 
But  since  I  must  speak,  I  will.  Do  you  wish  to  know 
how  you  can  please  me,  and  when  you  may  entertain  any 
hope  ? 

GARC.  I  should  consider  this,  Madam,  a  very  great 
favour. 

ELV.  When  you  know  how  to  love  as  you  ought. 

GARC.  Alas!  Madam,  does  there  exist  anything  under 
the  canopy  of  heaven  that  yields  not  to  the  passion  with 
which  your  eyes  have  inspired  me? 

ELY.  When  your  passion  displays  nothing  at  which  the 
object  of  your  love  can  feel  offended. 

GARC.  That  is  its  greatest  study. 

ELV.  When  you  shall  cease  to  harbour  mean  unworthy 
sentiments  of  me. 

GARC.   I  love  you  to  adoration. 

ELV.  When  you  have  made  reparation  for  your  unjust 
suspicions,  and  when  you  finally  banish  that  hideous  mon- 
ster which  poisons  your  love  with  its  black  venom;  that 
jealous  and  whimsical  temper  which  mars,  by  its  out- 
breaks, the  love  you  offer,  prevents  it  from  ever  being 
favourably  listened  to,  and  arms  me,  each  time,  with  just 
indignation  against  it. 

GARC.  Alas,  Madam,  it  is  true,  that,  notwithstanding 
my  utmost  effort,  some  trifling  jealousy  lingers  in  my 
heart;  that  a  rival,  though  distant  from  your  divine 
charms,  disturbs  my  equanimity.  Whether  it  be  whimsi- 
cal or  reasonable,  I  always  imagine  that  you  are  uneasy 
when  he  is  absent,  and  that  in  spite  of  my  attentions, 
your  sighs  are  continually  sent  in  search  of  that  too  happy 
rival.  But  if  such  suspicions  displease  you,  alas,  you  may 
easily  cure  them ;  their  removal,  which  I  hope  for,  de- 
pends more  on  you  than  on  me.  Yes,  with  a  couple  of 
love-breathing  words  you  can  arm  my  soul  against 
jealousy,  and  disperse  all  the  horrors  with  which  that 
monster  has  enshrouded  it,  by  encouraging  me  to  enter- 
tain some  expectation  of  a  successful  issue.  Deign  there- 
fore to  remove  the  doubt  that  oppresses  me  ;  and,  amidst 
so  many  trials,  let  your  charming  lips  grant  me  the  assur- 
ance that  you  love  me, — an  assurance,  of  which,  I  know,  I 
am  utterly  unworthy. 


2l6  DON  GARCIA  OF  NAVARRE;  [ACT  i. 

ELY.  Prince,  your  suspicions  completely  master  you. 
The  slightest  intimation  of  a  heart  should  be  understood ; 
it  does  not  reciprocate  a  passion  that  continually  adjures 
the  object  beloved  to  explain  herself  more  clearly.  The 
first  agitation  displayed  by  our  soul  ought  to  satisfy  a 
discreet  lover ;  if  he  wishes  to  make  us  declare  ourselves 
more  plainly,  he  only  gives  us  a  reason  for  breaking  our 
promise.  If  it  depended  on  me  alone,  I  know  not  whether 
I  should  choose  Don  Silvio  or  yourself;  the  very  wish  I 
expressed  for  you  not  to  be  jealous,  would  have  been  a 
sufficient  hint  to  any  one  but  you ;  I  thought  this  request 
was  worded  agreeably  enough  without  needing  anything 
further.  Your  love,  however,  is  not  yet  satisfied,  and 
requires  a  more  public  avowal.  In  order  to  remove  any 
scruples,  I  must  distinctly  say  that  I  love  you ;  perhaps 
even,  to  make  more  sure  of  it,  you  will  insist  that  I  must 
swear  it  too. 

GARC.  Well,  Madam,  I  own  I  am  too  bold ;  I  ought  to 
be  satisfied  with  everything  that  pleases  you.  I  desire  no 
further  information.  I  believe  you  feel  kindly  towards 
me,  that  my  love  inspires  you  even  with  a  little  compas- 
sion ;  I  am  happier  than  I  deserve  to  be.  It  is  over  now ; 
I  abandon  my  jealous  suspicions ;  the  sentence  which  con- 
demns them  is  very  agreeable  ;  I  shall  obey  the  decision 
you  so  kindly  pronounce,  and  free  my  heart  from  their 
unfounded  sway. 

ELV.  You  promise  a  great  deal,  Prince,  but  I  very  much 
doubt  whether  you  can  restrain  yourself  sufficiently. 

GARC.  Ah  !  Madam,  you  may  believe  me  ;  it  is  enough 
that  what  is  promised  to  you  ought  always  to  be  kept, 
because  the  happiness  of  obeying  the  being  one  worships 
ought  to  render  easy  the  greatest  efforts.  May  Heaven 
declare  eternal  war  against  me ;  may  its  thunder  strike  me 
dead  at  your  feet ;  or,  what  would  be  even  worse  than 
death,  may  your  wrath  be  poured  upon  me,  if  ever  my 
love  descends  to  such  weakness  as  to  fail  in  the  pro- 
mise I  have  given,  if  ever  any  jealous  transport  of  my 
soul  .  .  ! 


SCBNBV.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS    PRINCE.  217 

SCENE  IV. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALVAREZ, 
ELIZA,  A  PAGE  presenting  a  letter  to  Donna  Elvira. 

ELV.  I  was  very  anxious  about  this  letter,  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you  ;  let  the  messenger  wait. 

SCENE  V. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALVAREZ, 
ELIZA. 

ELV.  (Low  and  aside}.  I  see  already  by  his  looks  that 
this  letter  disturbs  him.  What  a  wonderfully  jealous 
temper  he  has  !  (Aloud}.  What  stops  you,  Prince,  in  the 
midst  of  your  oath. 

GARC.  I  thought  you  might  have  some  secret  together  ; 
I  was  unwilling  to  interrupt  you. 

ELV.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  reply  in  a  much  altered 
voice ;  I  see  all  of  a  sudden  a  certain  wildness  in  your 
looks ;  this  abrupt  change  surprises  me.  What  can  be  the 
cause  of  it  ?  May  I  know  ? 

GARC.  A  sudden  sickness  at  heart. 

ELV.  Such  illnesses  have  often  more  serious  conse- 
quences than  one  believes ;  some  immediate  remedy 
would  be  necessary;  but,  tell  me,  have  you  often  such 
attacks? 

GARC.  Sometimes. 

ELV.  Alas,  weak-minded  Prince!  Here,  let  this  writ- 
ing cure  your  distemper;  it  is  nowhere  but  in  the  mind. 

GARC.  That  writing,  Madam  !  No,  I  refuse  to  take  it. 
I  know  your  thoughts  and  what  you  will  accuse  me  of, 
if.  .  . 

ELV.  Read  it,  I  tell  you,  and  satisfy  yourself. 

GARC.  That  you  may  afterwards  call  me  weak-minded 
and  jealous?  No,  no,  I  will  prove  that  this  letter  gave  me 
no  umbrage,  and  though  you  kindly  allow  me  to  read  it, 
to  justify  myself,  I  will  not  do  so. 

ELV.  If  you  persist  in  your  refusal,  I  should  be  wrong  to 
compel  you;  it  is  sufficient,  in  short,  as  I  have  insisted 
upon  it,  to  let  you  see  whose  hand  it  is. 

GARC.  I  ought  always  to  be  submissive  to  you ;  if  it  is 
your  pleasure  I  should  read  it  for  you,  I  will  gladly  do  so. 

ELV.  Yes,  yes,  Prince,  here  it  is  ',  you  shall  read  it  for 
me. 


2l8  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  n. 

GARC.  I  only  do  so,  Madam,  in  obedience  to  your  com- 
mands, and  I  may  say  .  .  . 

ELV.  Whatever  you  please ;  but  pray  make  haste. 

GARC.  It  comes  from  Donna  Inez,  I  perceive. 

ELV.  It  does,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  both  for  your  sake 
and  mine. 

GARC.  (Reads).  "  In  spite  of  all  that  I  do  to  show  my 
contempt  for  the  tyrant,  he  persists  in  his  love  for  me;  the 
more  effectually  to  encompass  his  designs,  he  has,  since  your 
absence,  directed  against  me  all  that  violence  with  which  he 
pursued  the  alliance  between  yourself  and  his  son.  Those 
who  perhaps  have  the  right  to  command  me,  and  who  are  in- 
spired by  base  motives  of  false  honour,  all  approve  this  un- 
worthy proposal.  I  do  not  know  yet  where  my  persecution 
will  end;  but  I  will  die  sooner  than  give  my  consent.  May 
you,  fair  Elvira,  be  happier  in  your  fate  than  lam.  DONNA 
INEZ."  A  lofty  virtue  fortifies  her  mind. 

ELV.  I  will  go  and  write  an  answer  to  this  illustrious 
friend.  Meanwhile,  Prince,  learn  not  to  give  way  so 
readily  to  what  causes  you  alarm.  I  have  calmed  your 
emotion  by  enlightening  you,  and  the  whole  affair  has 
passed  off  quietly ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  a  time  may 
come  when  I  might  entertain  other  sentiments. 

GARC.  What?  you  believe  then  .    .    . 

ELV.  I  believe  what  I  ought.  Farewell,  remember 
what  I  tell  you ;  if  your  love  for  me  be  really  so  great  as 
you  pretend,  prove  it  as  I  wish. 

GARC.  Henceforth  this  will  be  my  only  desire;  and 
sooner  than  fail  in  it,  I  will  lose  my  life. 


ACT  II. 
SCENE  I. — ELIZA,  DON  LOPEZ. 

EL.  To  speak  my  mind  freely  to  you,  I  am  not  much 
astonished  at  anything  the  Prince  may  do ;  for  it  is  very 
natural,  and  I  cannot  disapprove  of  it,  that  a  soul  in- 
flamed by  a  noble  passion  should  become  exasperated  by 
jealousy,  and  that  frequent  doubts  should  cross  his  mind : 
but  what  surprises  me,  Don  Lopez,  is  to  hear  that  you 
keep  alive  his  suspicions ;  that  you  are  the  contriver  of 


SCENE  i.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  2 19 

them;  that  he  is  sad  only  because  you  wish  it,  jealous  only 
because  he  looks  at  everything  with  your  eyes.  I  repeat 
it,  Don  Lopez,  I  do  not  wonder  that  a  man  who  is  greatly 
in  love  becomes  suspicious.  But,  that  a  man  who  is  not 
in  love  should  have  all  the  anxieties  of  one  who  is  jealous 
— this  is  a  novelty  that  belongs  to  none  but  you. 

LOP.  Let  everybody  comment  on  my  actions  as  much 
as  they  please.  Each  man  regulates  his  conduct  according 
to  the  goal  he  wishes  to  reach ',  since  my  love  was  re- 
jected by  you,  I  court  the  favour  of  the  Prince. 

EL.  But  do  you  not  know  that  no  favour  will  be  granted 
to  him  if  you  continue  to  maintain  him  in  this  disposi- 
tion ? 

LOP.  Pray,  charming  Eliza,  was  it  ever  known  that 
those  about  great  men  minded  anything  but  their  own  in- 
terest, or  that  a  perfect  courtier  wished  to  increase  the 
retinue  of  those  same  grandees  by  adding  to  it  a  censor 
of  their  faults  ?  Did  he  ever  trouble  himself  if  his  con- 
versation harmed  them,  provided  he  could  but  derive 
some  benefit  ?  All  the  actions  of  a  courtier  only  tend  to 
get  into  their  favour,  to  obtain  a  place  in  as  short  a  time 
as  possible ;  the  quickest  way  to  acquire  their  good  graces 
is  by  always  flattering  their  weaknesses,  by  blindly  ap- 
plauding what  they  have  a  mind  to  do,  and  by  never 
countenancing  anything  that  displeases  them.  That  is 
the  true  secret  of  standing  well  with  them.  Good  advice 
causes  a  man  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  troublesome  fellow, 
so  that  he  no  longer  enjoys  that  confidence  which  he  had 
secured  by  an  artful  subservience.  In  short,  we  always 
see  that  the  art  of  courtiers  aims  only  at  taking  advantage 
of  the  foibles  of  the  great,  at  cherishing  their  errors,  and 
never  advising  them  to  do  things  which  they  dislike. 

EL.  These  maxims  may  do  well  enough  for  a  time :  but 
reverses  of  fortune  have  to  be  dreaded.  A  gleam  of  light 
may  at  last  penetrate  the  minds  of  the  deceived  nobles, 
who  will  then  justly  avenge  themselves  on  all  such  flat- 
terers for  the  length  of  time  their  glory  has  been  dimmed. 
Meanwhile  I  must  tell  you  that  you  have  been  a  little  too 
frank  in  your  explanations ;  if  a  true  account  of  your 
motives  were  laid  before  the  Prince,  it  would  but  ill  serve 
you  in  making  your  fortune. 


220  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  n. 

LOP.  I  could  deny  having  told  you  those  truths  I  have 
just  unfolded,  and  that  without  being  gainsaid  ;  but  I 
know  very  well  that  Eliza  is  too  discreet  to  divulge  this 
private  conversation.  After  all,  what  I  have  said  is  known 
by  everyone  ;  what  actions  of  mine  have  I  to  conceal  ? 
A  downfall  may  be  justly  dreaded  when  we  employ  arti- 
fices or  treachery.  But  what  have  I  to  fear  ?  I,  who 
cannot  be  taxed  with  anything  but  complaisance,  who  by 
my  useful  lessons  do  but  follow  up  the  Prince's  natural  in- 
clination for  jealousy.  His  soul  seems  to  live  upon  sus- 
picions ;  and  so  I  do  my  very  best  to  find  him  opportuni- 
ties for  his  uneasiness,  and  to  look  out  on  all  sides  if  any- 
thing has  happened  that  may  furnish  a  subject  for  a  secret 
conversation.  When  I  can  go  to  him,  with  a  piece  of 
news  that  may  give  a  deadly  blow  to  his  repose,  then  he 
loves  me  most  :  I  can  see  him  listen  eagerly  and  swallow 
the  poison,  amd  thank  me  for  it  too,  as  if  I  had  brought 
him  news  of  some  victory  which  would  make  him  happy 
and  glorious  for  all  his  life.  But  my  rival  draws  near, 
and  so  I  leave  you  together ;  though  I  have  renounced  all 
hope  of  ever  gaining  your  affection,  yet  it  would  pain  me 
not  a  little  to  see  you  prefer  him  to  me  before  my  face ; 
therefore  I  will  avoid  such  a  mortification  7  as  much  as 
I  can. 

EL.  All  judicious  lovers  should  do  the  same. 

SCENE  II. — DON  ALVAREZ,  ELIZA. 

ALV.  At  last  we  have  received  intelligence  that  the 
king  of  Navarre  has  this  very  day  declared  himself  favour- 
able to  the  Prince's  love,  and  that  a  number  of  fresh  troops 
will  reinforce  his  army,  ready  to  be  employed  in  the  ser- 
vice of  her  to  whom  his  wishes  aspire.  As  for  me,  I  am 
surprised  at  their  quick  movements  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 

SCENE  III — DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALVAREZ,  ELIZA. 
GARC.   What  is  the  Princess  doing  ? 
EL.  I  think,  my  Lord,  she  is  writing  some  letters ;  but 
I  shall  let  her  know  that  you  are  here. 

7  Don  Lopez  bears  a  distant  resemblance  to  "honest  lago"  in  Othello, 
though  Moliere  has  only  faintly  shadowed  forth  what  Shakespeare  has 
worked  out  in  so  masterly  a,  manner. 


SCENBV.]  OR,  THE   JEALOUS    PRINCE.  221 

GARC.  I  will  wait  till  she  has  done. 

SCENE  IV. — DON  GARCIA  (Alone). 

Being  on  the  point  of  seeing  her,  I  feel  my  soul  shaken 
by  an  unusual  emotion  ;  fear  as  well  as  excess  of  feeling 
makes  me  suddenly  tremble.  Take  heed,  Don  Garcia,  lest 
a  blind  caprice  lead  you  to  some  precipice,  and  lest  the 
great  disorder  of  your  mind  cause  you  to  yield  a  little  too 
much  to  your  senses.  Consult  reason,  take  her  for  your 
guide  ;  see  whether  your  suspicions  are  well  founded  ;  do 
not  reject  their  voice,  but  yet  take  care  not  to  believe  them 
too  readily,  otherwise  they  might  deceive  you,  and  your 
first  outburst  might  pass  all  bounds.  Read  carefully  again 
this  half  of  a  letter.  Ha,  what  would  I,  whose  heart  is 
full  of  agony,  not  give  for  the  other  half  of  it  ?  But,  after 
all,  what  do  I  say  ?  This  part  suffices  and  is  more  than 
enough  to  convince  me  of  my  misfortune  : 

"  Though  your  rival   .    . 
you  ought  still  .    .    . 
It  is  in  your  power  to    .    .    . 
the  greatest  obstacle   .    .    . 
I  feel  very  grateful  .    .    . 
for  rescuing  me  from  the  hands  .    .    . 
his  love,  his  homage   .    .    . 
but  his  jealousy  is    ,    .    . 
Remove,  therefore,  from  your  love    .    .    . 
deserve  the  regards   .    .    . 
and  when  one  endeavours   .    .    . 
do  not  persist  .    .    . 

Yes,  my  destiny  is  sufficiently  explained  by  these  words, 
which  clearly  show  that  she  wrote  what  she  felt ;  the  im- 
perfect meaning  of  this  ominous  letter  does  not  require 
the  other  half  to  be  clear  to  me.  Let  us,  however,  act 
gently  at  first ;  let  us  conceal  our  deep  emotion  from  this 
faithless  woman  ;  let  us  employ  against  her  the  same  arts 
she  makes  use  of.  Here  she  comes.  Reason,  be  thou 
mistress  of  my  soul,  and  for  some  time  at  least,  keep  me 
from  giving  way  to  my  passion  ! 

SCENE  V. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  GARCIA. 
ELV.  I  trust  you  will  pardon  me  for  letting  you  wait. 


222  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  n. 

GARC.  (In  a  low  -voice  and  aside).  How  well  she  dis- 
sembles. 

ELY.  We  have  just  now  heard  that  the  King,  your 
father,  approves  your  designs,  and  consents  that  his  son 
should  restore  us  to  our  subjects.  I  am  extremely  re- 
joiced at  this. 

GARC.  Yes,  Madam,  and  my  heart  is  rejoiced  at  it  too ; 
but  ... 

ELV.  The  tyrant  will  doubtless  find  it  difficult  to  defend 
himself  against  the  thunderbolts  which  from  all  sides 
threaten  him.  I  flatter  myself  that  the  same  courage 
which  was  able  to  deliver  me  from  the  brutal  rage  of  the 
usurper,  to  snatch  me  out  of  his  hands,  and  place  me  safe 
within  the  walls  of  Astorga,  will  conquer  the  whole  of 
Leon,  and, lay  its  noble  efforts  cause  the  head  of  the  tyrant 
to  fall. 

GARC.  A  few  days  more  will  show  if  I  am  successful. 
But  pray  let  us  proceed  to  some  other  subject  of  conversa- 
tion. If  you  do  not  consider  me  too  bold,  will  you  kindly 
tell  me,  Madam,  to  whom  you  have  written  since  fate  led 
us  hither  ? 

ELV.  Why  this  question,  and  whence  this  anxiety  ? 

GARC.  Out  of  pure  curiosity,  Madam,  that  is  all. 

ELV.   Curiosity  is  the  daughter  of  jealousy. 

GARC.  No ;  it  is  not  at  all  what  you  imagine ;  your  com- 
mands have  sufficiently  cured  that  disease. 

ELV.  Without  endeavouring  further  to  discover  what 
may  be  the  reasons  for  your  inquiry,  I  have  written  twice 
to  the  Countess  Inez  at  Leon,  and  as  often  to  the  Mar- 
quis, Don  Louis,  at  Burgos.  Does  this  answer  put  your 
mind  at  rest  ? 

GARC.  Have  you  written  to  no  one  else,  Madam  ? 

ELV.  No,  certainly,  and  your  questions  astonish  me. 

GARC.  Pray  consider  well,  before  you  make  such  a  state- 
ment, because  people  forget  sometimes,  and  thus  perjure 
themselves. 

ELV.  I  cannot  perjure  myself  in  what  I  have  stated. 

GARC.  You  have,  however,  told  a  very  great  falsehood. 

ELV.  Prince  ! 

GARC.  Madam! 

ELV.  Heavens  ;  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  !  Speak .' 
Have  you  lost  your  senses  ? 


SCBNEV.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  223 

GARC.  Yes,  yes,  I  lost  them,  when  to  my  misfortune  I 
beheld  you,  and  thus  took  the  poison  which  kills  me ;  when 
I  thought  to  meet  with  some  sincerity  in  those  treacherous 
charms  that  bewitched  me. 

ELV.  What  treachery  have  you  to  complain  of? 

GARC.  Oh !  how  double-faced  she  is  !  how  well  she 
knows  to  dissimulate !  But  all  means  for  escape  will  fail 
you.  Cast  your  eyes  here,  and  recognize  your  writing. 8 
Without  having  seen  the  other  part  of  this  letter,  it  is  easy 
enough  to  discover  for  whom  you  employ  this  style. 

ELV.  And  this  is  the  cause  of  your  perturbation  of 
spirits? 

GARC.  Do  you  not  blush  on  beholding  this  writing? 

ELV.  Innocence  is  not  accustomed  to  blush. 

GARC.  Here  indeed  we  see  it  oppressed.  You  disown 
this  letter  because  it  is  not  signed. 

ELV.  Why  should  I  disown  it,  since  I  wrote  it?9 

GARC.  It  is  something  that  you  are  frank  enough  to  own 
your  handwriting;  but  I  will  warrant  that  it  was  a  note 
written  to  some  indifferent  person,  or  at  least  that  the 
tender  sentiments  it  contains  were  intended  only  for  some 
lady  friend  or  relative. 

ELV.  No,  I  wrote  it  to  a  lover,  and,  what  is  more,  to  one 
greatly  beloved. 

GARC.  And  can  I,  O  perfidious  woman  .    .    .  ? 

ELV.  Bridle,  unworthy  Prince,  the  excess  of  your  base 
fury.  Although  you  do  not  sway  my  heart,  and  I  am 
accountable  here  to  none  but  myself,  yet  for  your  sole 
punishment  I  will  clear  myself  from  the  crime  of  which 
you  so  insolently  accuse  me.  You  shall  be  undeceived ;  do 
not  doubt  it.  I  have  my  defence  at  hand.  You  shall  be 
fully  enlightened ;  my  innocence  shall  appear  complete. 
You  yourself  shall  be  the  judge  in  your  own  cause,  and 
pronounce  your  own  sentence. 

8 The  lines,  "Heavens!  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  till  "and  re- 
cognize your  writing,"  have  been  employed  again  by  Moliere  in  the 
Misanthrope,  Act  iv.,  Scene  3,  (see  vol.  II).  The  misanthrope  Alceste 
has  also  in  his  hand  the  written  proofs  of  the  faithlessness  of  the  object 
of  his  love :  but  his  suspicions  are  well  founded,  whilst  those  of  Don 
Garcia  are  inspired  only  by  jealousy. 

•The  words,  "  And  this  is  the  cause  "  until  "  since  I  wrote  it,"  are ,  with 
a  few  slight  alterations,  found  also  in  the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv.,  Scene  3. 


224  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  „. 

GARC.  I  cannot  understand  such  mysterious  talk. 
ELV.  You  shall  soon  comprehend  it  to  your  cost.    Eliza 
come  hither ! 

SCENE  VI. — DON  GARCIA,  DONNA  ELVIRA,  ELIZA. 

EL.  Madam. 

ELV.  (to Don  Garcia).  At  least  observe  well  whether  I 
make  use  of  any  artifice  to  deceive  you  ;  whether  by  a 
single  glance  or  by  any  warning  gesture  I  seek  to  ward  off 
this  sudden  blow.  (To  Eliza).  Answer  me  quickly, 
where  did  you  leave  the  letter  I  wrote  just  now  ? 

EL.  Madam,  I  confess  I  am  to  blame.  This  letter  was 
by  accident  left  on  my  table ;  but  I  have  just  been  in- 
formed that  Don  Lopez,  coming  into  my  apartment,  took, 
as  he  usually  does,  the  liberty  to  pry  everywhere,  and 
found  it.  As  he  was  unfolding  it,  Leonora  wished  to 
snatch  it  from  him  before  he  had  read  anything ;  and 
whilst  she  tried  to  do  this,  the  letter  in  dispute  was  torn 
in  two  pieces,  with  one  of  which  Don  Lopez  quickly  went 
away,  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do. 

ELV.  Have  you  the  other  half? 

EL.  Yes ;  here  it  is. 

ELV.  Give  it  to  me.  (To  Don  Garcia).  We  shall  see 
who  is  to  blame ;  join  the  two  parts  together,  and  then 
read  it  aloud.  I  wish  to  hear  it. 

GARC.  "  To  Don  Garcia."     Ha  ! 

ELV.  Go  on  !  Are  you  thunderstruck  at  the  first 
word? 

GARC.  (Reads).  "  Though  your  rival,  Prince,  disturbs 
your  mind,  you  ought  still  to  fear  yourself  more  than  him.  It 
is  in  your  power  to  destroy  now  the  greatest  obstacle  your 
passion  has  to  encounter.  I  feel  very  grateful  to  Don  Garcia 
for  rescuing  me  from  the  hands  of  my  bold  ravishers ;  his 
love,  his  homage  delights  me  much ;  but  his  jealousy  is  odi- 
ous to  me.  Remove,  therefore,  from  your  love  that  foul 
blemish;  deserve  the  regards  that  are  bestowed  upon  it;  and 
when  one  endeavours  to  make  you  happy,  do  not  persist  in  re- 
maining miserable. ' ' 

ELV.  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  this  ? 

GARC.  Ah !  Madam,  I  say  that  on  reading  this  I  am 
quite  confounded  ;  that  I  see  the  extreme  injustice  of  my 


SCENBVI.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  22'j 

complaints,  and  that  no  punishment  can  be  severe  enough 
for  me. 

ELV.  Enough  !  Know  that  if  I  desired  that  you  should 
read  the  letter,  it  was  only  to  contradict  everything  I  stated 
in  it ;  to  unsay  a  hundred  times  all  that  you  read  there  in 
your  favour.  Farewell,  Prince. 

GARC.  Alas,  Madam  !  whither  do  you  fly  ? 

ELV.  To  a  spot  where  you  shall  not  be,  over-jealous 
man. 

GARC.  Ah,  Madam,  excuse  a  lover  who  is  wretched 
because,  by  a  wonderful  turn  of  fate,  he  has  become  guilty 
towards  you,  and  who,  though  you  are  now  very  wroth 
with  him,  would  have  deserved  greater  blame  if  he  had 
remained  innocent.  For,  in  short,  can  a  heart  be  truly 
enamoured  which  does  not  dread  as  well  as  hope  ?  And 
could  you  believe  I  loved  you  if  this  ominous  letter  had 
not  alarmed  me ;  if  I  had  not  trembled  at  the  thunder- 
bolt which  I  imagined  had  destroyed  all  my  happiness? 
I  leave  it  to  yourself  to  judge  if  such  an  accident  would 
not  have  caused  any  other  lover  to  commit  the  same  error  ; 
if  I  could  disbelieve,  alas,  a  proof  which  seemed  to  me  so 
clear ! 

ELV.  Yes,  you  might  have  done  so;  my  feelings  so 
clearly  expressed  ought  to  have  prevented  your  suspicions. 
You  had  nothing  to  fear;  if  some  others  had  had  such  a 
pledge  they  would  have  laughed  to  scorn  the  testimony 
of  the  whole  world. 

GARC.  The  less  we  deserve  a  happiness  which  has  been 
promised  us,  the  greater  is  the  difficulty  we  feel  in  believ- 
ing in  it.  A  destiny  too  full  of  glory  seems  unstable,  and 
renders  us  suspicious.  As  for  me,  who  think  myself  so 
little  deserving  of  your  favours,  I  doubted  the  success  of 
my  rashness.19  I  thought  that,  finding  yourself  in  a  place 
under  my  command,  you  forced  yourself  to  be  somewhat 
kind  to  me;  that,  disguising  to  me  your  severity  .  .  . 

ELV.  Do  you  think  that  I  could  stoop  to  so  cowardly  an 
action?  Am  I  capable  of  feigning  so  disgracefully;  of 

10  Moliere  has  with  a  few  alterations  placed  this  phrase  beginning  with 
"  the  less,"  and  ending  with  "  my  rashness,"  in  the  mouth  of  Tartuffe  in. 
the  play  of  the  same  name,  Act  iv.,  Sc.  5,  (see  Vol.  II). 

VOL.   I.  P 


226  DON  GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  •    [ACT  n. 

acting  from  motives  of  servile  fear ;  of  betraying  my  sen- 
timents; and,  because  I  am  in  your  power,  of  concealing 
my  contempt  for  you  under  a  pretence  of  kindness? 
Could  any  consideration  for  my  own  reputation  so  little 
influence  me?  Can  you  think  so,  and  dare  to  tell  it  me? 
Know  that  this  heart  cannot  debase  itself;  that  nothing 
under  Heaven  can  compel  it  to  act  thus:  if  it  has  com- 
mitted the  great  error  of  showing  you  some  kindness,  of 
which  you  were  not  worthy,  know  that  in  spite  of  your 
power,  it  will  be  able  now  to  show  the  hatred  it  feels  for 
you,  to  defy  your  rage,  and  convince  you  that  it  is  not 
mean,  nor  ever  will  be  so. 

GARC.U  Well,  I  cannot  deny  that  I  am  guilty:  but  I  beg 
pardon  of  your  heavenly  charms,  I  beg  it  for  the  sake  of 
the  most  ardent  love  that  two  beautiful  eyes  ever  kindled 
in  a  human  soul.  But  if  your  wrath  cannot  be  appeased ; 
if  my  crime  be  beyond  forgiveness;  if  you  have  no  regard 
for  the  love  that  caused  it,  nor  for  my  heart-felt  repent- 
ance, then  one  propitious  blow  shall  end  my  life,  and  free 
me  from  these  unbearable  torments.  No,  think  not  that 
having  displeased  you,  I  can  live  for  one  moment  under 
your  wrath.  Even  whilst  we  are  speaking,  my  heart  sinks 
under  gnawing  remorse ;  were  a  thousand  vultures  cruelly 
to  wound  it,  they  could  not  inflict  greater  pangs.  Tell 
me,  madam,  if  I  may  hope  for  pardon ;  if  not,  then  this 
sword  shall  instantly,  in  your  sight,  by  a  well-directed 
thrust,  pierce  the  heart  of  a  miserable  wretch ;  that  heart, 
that  irresolute  heart,  whose  weakness  has  so  deeply  of- 
fended your  excessive  kindness,  too  happy  if  in  death  this 
just  doom  efface  from  your  memory  all  remembrance  of 
its  crime,  and  cause  you  to  think  of  my  affection  without 
dislike.  This  is  the  only  favour  my  love  begs  of  you. 

ELV.  Oh !  too  cruel  Prince ! 

GARC.  Speak,  Madam. 

ELV.  Must  I  still  preserve  some  kind  feelings  for  you, 
and  suffer  myself  to  be  affronted  by  so  many  indignities? 

GARC.  A  heart  that  is  in  love  can  never  offend,  and 
finds  excuses  for  whatever  love  may  do. 

11  This  scene  beginning  from  "  Well,"  until  the  end,  has,  with  several 
alterations  rendered  necessary  by  change  of  metre,  been  treated  by  Mo- 
liere  in  his  Amphitryon,  Act  ii.,  Sc.  6,  (see  Vol.  II.). 


SCBNK  vii.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  227 

ELV.  Love  is  no  excuse  for  such  outbursts. 

GARC.  Love  communicates  its  ardour  to  all  emotions, 
and  the  stronger  it  is,  the  more  difficulty  it  finds  .  .  . 

ELV.  No,  speak  to  me  no  more  of  it ;  you  deserve  my 
hatred. 

GARC.  You  hate  me  then  ? 

ELV.  I  will  at  least  endeavour  to  do  so.  But  alas  !  I 
am  afraid  it  will  be  in  vain,  and  that  all  the  wrath  which 
your  insults  have  kindled,  will  not  carry  my  revenge 
so  far. 

GARC.  Do  not  endeavour  to  punish  me  so  severely,  since 
I  offer  to  kill  myself  to  avenge  you ;  pronounce  but  the 
sentence  and  I  obey  immediately. 

ELV.  One  who  cannot  hate  cannot  wish  anybody  to  die. 

GARC.  I  cannot  live  unless  you  kindly  pardon  my  rash 
errors ;  resolve  either  to  punish  or  to  forgive. 

ELV.  Alas !  I  have  shown  too  clearly  my  resolution ;  do 
we  not  pardon  a  criminal  when  we  tell  him  we  cannot 
hate  him  ? 

GARC.  Ah !  this  is  too  much.  Suffer  me,  adorable 
Princess  .  .  . 

ELV.  Forbear,  I  am  angry  with  myself  for  my  weakness. 

GARC.   {Alone).     At  length  I  am  .  .  . 

SCENE  VII. — DON  GARCIA,  DON  LOPEZ. 

LOP.  My  Lord,  I  have  to  communicate  to  you  a  secret 
that  may  justly  alarm  your  love. 

GARC.  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  secrets  or  alarms,  whilst  I 
am  in  such  a  blissful  rapture.  After  what  has  just  taken 
place,  I  ought  not  to  listen  to  any  suspicions.  The  un- 
equalled kindness  of  a  divine  object  ought  to  shut  my 
ears  against  all  such  idle  reports.  Do  not  say  anything 
more. 

LOP.  My  Lord,  I  shall  do  as  you  wish ;  my  only  care 
in  this  business  was  for  you.  I  thought  that  the  secret  I 
just  discovered  ought  to  be  communicated  with  all  dili- 
gence ;  but  since  it  is  your  pleasure  I  should  not  mention 
it,  I  shall  change  the  conversation,  and  inform  you  that 
every  family  in  Leon  threw  off  the  mask,  as  soon  as  the 
report  spread  that  the  troops  of  Castile  were  approaching; 


228  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  in. 

the  lower  classes  especially  show  openly  such  an  affection 
for  their  true  King,  that  the  tyrant  trembles  for  fear. 

GARC.  Castile,  however,  shall  not  gain  the  victory  with- 
out our  making  an  attempt  to  share  in  the  glory;  our 
troops  may  also  be  able  to  terrify  Mauregat.  But  what 
secret  would  you  communicate  to  me?  Let  us  hear  it? 

LOP.  My  Lord,  I  have  nothing  to  say.12 

GARC.   Come,  come,  speak,  I  give  you  leave. 

LOP.  My  Lord,  your  words  have  told  me  differently ; 
and  since  my  news  may  displease  you,  I  shall  know  for 
the  future  how  to  remain  silent. 

GARC.  Without  further  reply,  I  wish  to  know  your 
secret. 

LOP.  Your  commands  must  be  obeyed  ;  but,  my  Lord, 
duty  forbids  me  to  explain  such  a  secret  in  this  place. 
Let  us  go  hence,  and  I  shall  communicate  it  to  you;  with- 
out taking  anything  lightly  for  granted,  you  yourself  shall 
judge  what  you  ought  to  think  of  it. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  I. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  ELIZA. 

ELY.  What  say  you,  Eliza,  to  this  unaccountable  weak- 
ness in  the  heart  of  a  Princess  ?  What  do  you  say  when 
you  see  me  so  quickly  forego  my  desire  for  revenge,  and, 
in  spite  of  so  much  publicity,  weakly  and  shamefully  par- 
don so  cruel  an  outrage. 

EL.  I  say,  Madam,  that  an  insult  from  a  man  we  love 
is  doubtless  very  difficult  to  bear ;  but  if  there  be  none 
which  makes  us  sooner  angry,  so  there  is  none  which  we 
sooner  pardon.  If  the  man  we  love  is  guilty,  and  throws 
himself  at  our  feet,  he  triumphs  over  the  rash  outbreak  of 
the  greatest  anger;  so  much  the  more  easily,  Madam,  if 
the  offence  comes  from  an  excess  of  love.  However  great 
your  displeasure  may  have  been,  I  am  not  astonished  to 
see  it  appeased ;  I  know  the  power  which,  in  spite  of  your 
threats,  will  always  pardon  such  crimes. 

ELV.  But  know,  Eliza,  however  great  the  power  of  my 
love  may  be,  I  have  blushed  for  the  last  time ;  if  hence- 
forth the  Prince  gives  me  fresh  cause  for  anger,  he  must  no 

M  Compare  lago's  reticence  in  Shakespeare's  Othello  (iii.  3). 


SCKNK  n.j  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  22<) 

longer  look  for  pardon.  I  swear,  that  in  such  a  case,  I 
will  never  more  foster  tender  feelings  for  him:  for  in 
short,  a  mind  with  ever  so  little  pride  is  greatly  ashamed 
to  go  back  from  its  word,  and  often  struggles  gallantly 
against  its  own  inclinations ;  it  becomes  stubborn  for 
honour's  sake,  and  sacrifices  everything  to  the  noble  pride 
of  keeping  its  word.  Though  I  have  pardoned  him  now, 
do  not  consider  this  a  precedent  for  the  future.  What- 
ever fortune  has  in  store  for  me,  I  cannot  think  of  giving 
my  hand  to  the  Prince  of  Navarre,  until  he  has  shown  that 
he  is  completely  cured  of  those  gloomy  fits  which  unsettle 
his  reason,  and  has  convinced  me,  who  am  the  greatest 
sufferer  by  this  disease,  that  he  will  never  insult  me  again 
by  a  relapse. 

EL.  But  how  can  the  jealousy  of  a  lover  be  an  insult 
to  us? 

ELV.  Is  there  one  more  deserving  of  our  wrath  ?  And 
since  it  is  with  the  utmost  difficulty  we  can  resolve  to  con- 
fess our  love;  since  the  strict  honour  of  our  sex  at  all 
times  strongly  opposes  such  a  confession,  ought  a  lover  to 
doubt  our  avowal,  and  should  he  not  be  punished?  Is  he 
not  greatly  to  blame  in  disbelieving  that  which  is  never 
said  but  after  a  severe  struggle  with  one's  self?13 

EL.  As  for  me,  I  think  that  a  little  mistrust  on  such  an 
occasion  should  not  offend  us;  and  that  it  is  dangerous, 
Madam,  for  a  lover  to  be  absolutely  persuaded  that  he  is 
beloved.  If ... 

ELV.  Let  us  argue  no  more.  Every  person  thinks  dif- 
ferently. I  am  offended  by  such  suspicions;  and,  in  spite 
of  myself,  I  am  conscious  of  something  which  forebodes  an 
open  quarrel  between  the  Prince  and  me,  and  which,  not- 
withstanding his  great  qualities  ....  But  Heavens! 
Don  Silvio  of  Castile  in  this  place! 

SCENE  II. — DONNA  ELVIRA,   DON  ALPHONSO,   under  the 

name  of  Don  Silvio,  ELIZA. 

ELV.  Ah !  my  Lord,  what  chance  has  brought  you  here? 
ALPH.  I  know,  Madam,  that  my  arrival  must  surprise 

1S  The  words  "  since  it  is"  until  "  one's  self  have  been  used  by  Molidre 
with  some  slight  alteration  in  the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv.,  Scene  3,  (see 
vol.  II.) 


230  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  HI. 

you.  To  enter  quietly  this  town,  to  which  the  access  has 
become  difficult  through  the  orders  of  a  rival,  and  to  have 
avoided  being  seen  by  the  soldiers,  is  an  event  you  did 
not  look  for.  But  if,  in  coming  here,  I  have  surmounted 
some  obstacles,  the  desire  of  seeing  you  is  able  to  effect 
much  greater  miracles.  My  heart  has  felt  but  too  severely 
the  blows  of  merciless  fate  which  kept  me  away  from  you ; 
to  allay  the  pangs  which  nearly  kill  me,  I  could  not  refuse 
myself  some  moments  to  behold  in  secret  your  inestimable 
person.  I  come,  therefore,  to  tell  you  that  I  return 
thanks  to  Heaven,  that  you  are  rescued  from  the  hands  of 
an  odious  tyrant.  But,  in  the  midst  of  that  happiness,  I 
feel  that  I  shall  always  be  tortured  with  the  thought  that 
envious  fate  deprived  me  of  the  honour  of  performing  such 
a  noble  deed,  and  has  unjustly  given  to  my  rival  the 
chance  of  venturing  his  life  pleasantly  to  render  you  so 
great  a  service.  Yes,  Madam,  my  readiness  to  free  you 
from  your  chains  was  undoubtedly  equal  to  his;  I  should 
have  gained  the  victory  for  you,  if  Heaven  had  not  robbed 
me  of  that  honour. 

ELV.  I  know,  my  Lord,  that  you  possess  a  heart  capable 
of  overcoming  the  greatest  dangers  ;  I  doubt  not  but  this 
generous  zeal  which  incited  you  to  espouse  my  quarrel, 
would  have  enabled  you,  as  well  as  any  one  else,  to  over- 
come all  base  attempts  ;  but  even  if  you  have  not  per- 
formed this  noble  deed — and  you  could  have  done  it — I 
am  already  under  sufficient  obligations  to  the  house  of 
Castile.  It  is  well  known  what  a  warm  and  faithful  friend 
the  Count,  your  father,  was  of  the  late  King,  and  what  he 
did  for  him.  After  having  assisted  him  until  he  died,  he 
gave  my  brother  a  shelter  in  his  states  ;  full  twenty  years 
he  concealed  him,  in  spite  of  the  cowardly  efforts  to  dis- 
cover him,  employed  by  barbarous  and  enraged  enemies  ; 
and  now  to  restore  to  his  brow  a  crown,  in  all  its  splendour, 
you  are  marching  in  person  against  our  usurpers.  Are  you 
not  satisfied,  and  do  not  these  generous  endeavours  place 
me  under  strong  obligations  to  you?  Would  you,  my 
Lord,  obstinately  persist  in  swaying  my  whole  fate  ?  Must 
I  never  receive  even  the  slightest  kindness  unless  from 
you  ?  Ah  !  amidst  these  misfortunes,  which  seem  to  be 
my  fate,  suffer  me  to  owe  also  something  to  another,  and 


SCENE  ii.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRIN'CE.  251 

do  not  complain  that  another  arm  acquired  some  glory, 
when  you  were  absent. 

ALPH.  Yes,  Madam,  I  ought  to  cease  complaining ;  you 
are  quite  right  when  you  tell  me  so  ;  we  unjustly  complain 
of  one  misfortune,  when  a  much  greater  threatens  to  afflict 
us.  This  succour  from  a  rival  is  a  cruel  mortification  to 
me :  but,  alas  !  this  is  not  the  greatest  of  my  misfortunes ; 
the  blow,  the  severe  blow  which  crushes  me,  is  to  see  that 
rival  preferred  to  me.  Yes,  I  but  too  plainly  perceive  that 
his  greater  reputation  was  the  reason  that  his  love  was 
preferred  to  mine  ;  that  opportunity  of  serving  you,  the 
advantage  he  possessed  of  signalizing  his  prowess,  that 
brillant  exploit  which  he  performed  in  saving  you,  was 
nothing  but  the  mere  effect  of  being  happy  enough  to 
please  you,  the  secret  power  of  a  wonderful  astral  influence 
which  causes  the  object  you  love  to  become  famed.  Thus 
all  my  efforts  will  be  in  vain.  I  am  leading  an  army 
against  your  haughty  tyrants  ;  but  I  fulfil  this  noble  duty 
trembling,  because  I  am  sure  that  your  wishes  will  not  be 
for  me,  and  that,  if  they  are  granted,  fortune  has  in  store 
the  rnost  glorious  success  for  my  happy  rival.  Ah  !  Madam, 
must  I  see  myself  hurled  from  that  summit  of  glory  I 
expected  ;  and  may  I  not  know  what  crimes  they  accuse 
me  of,  and  why  I  have  deserved  that  dreadful  downfall? 

ELY.  Before  you  ask  me  anything,  consider  what  you 
ought  to  ask  of  my  feelings.  As  for  this  coldness  of  mine, 
which  seems  to  abash  you,  I  leave  it  to  you,  my  Lord,  to 
answer  for  me ;  for,  in  short,  you  cannot  be  ignorant  that 
some  of  your  secrets  have  been  told  to  me.  I  believe  your 
mind  to  be  too  noble  and  too  generous  to  desire  me  to  do 
what  is  wrong.  Say  yourself  if  it  would  be  just  to  make 
me  reward  faithlessness ;  whether  you  can,  without  the 
greatest  injustice,  offer  me  a  heart  already  tendered  to 
another ;  whether  you  are  justified  in  complaining,  and  in 
blaming  a  refusal  which  would  prevent  you  from  staining 
your  virtues  with  a  crime?  Yes,  my  Lord,  it  is  a  crime, 
for  first  love  has  so  sacred  a  hold  on  a  lofty  mind,  that  it 
would  rather  lose  greatness  and  abandon  life  itself,  than 
incline  to  a  second  love.14  I  have  that  regard  for  you  which 

14  The  words  "  Yes  my  Lord  "  until  "  second  love  "  are  also,  with  some 
alterations,  found  in  The  Blue  Stockings,  Act  iv.  Scene  2,  (see  Vol.  III). 


232  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  m. 

is  caused  by  an  appreciation  of  your  lofty  courage,  your 
magnanimous  heart ;  but  do  not  require  of  me  more  than 
I  owe  you,  and  maintain  the  honour  of  your  first  choice. 
In  spite  of  your  new  love,  consider  what  tender  feelings 
the  amiable  Inez  still  retains  for  you ;  that  she  has  con- 
stantly refused  to  be  made  happy  for  the  sake  of  an  un- 
grateful man  ;  for  such  you  are,  my  Lord  !  In  her  great 
love  for  you,  how  generously  has  she  scorned  the  splendour 
of  a  diadem  !  Consider  what  attempts  she  has  withstood 
for  your  sake,  and  restore  to  her  heart  what  you  owe  it. 

ALPH.  Ah,  Madam,  do  not  present  her  merit  to  my 
eyes  !  Though  I  am  an  ungrateful  man  and  abandon  her, 
she  is  never  out  of  my  mind;  if  my  heart  could  tell  you 
what  it  feels  for  her,  I  fear  it  would  be  guilty  towards  you. 
Yes,  that  heart  dares  to  pity  Inez,  and  does  not,  without 
some  hesitation  follow  the  violent  love  which  leads  it  on. 
I  never  flattered  myself  that  you  would  reward  my  love 
without  at  the  same  time  breathing  some  sighs  for  her ; 
in  the  midst  of  these  pleasant  thoughts  my  memory  still 
casts  some  sad  looks  towards  my  first  love,  reproaches  it- 
self with  the  effect  of  your  divine  charms,  and  mingles 
some  remorse  with  what  I  wish  most  fervently.  And 
since  I  must  tell  you  all,  I  have  done  more  than  this.  I 
have  endeavoured  to  free  myself  from  your  sway,  to  break 
your  chains,  and  to  place  my  heart  again  under  the  inno- 
cent yoke  of  its  first  conqueror.  But,  after  all  my  en- 
deavours, my  fidelity  gives  way,  and  I  see  only  one  remedy 
for  the  disease  that  kills  me.  Were  I  even  to  be  forever 
wretched,  I  cannot  forswear  my  love,  or  bear  the  terrible 
idea  of  seeing  you  in  the  arms  of  another ;  that  same 
light,  which  permits  me  to  behold  your  charms,  will  shine 
on  my  corpse,  before  this  marriage  takes  place.  I  know 
that  I  betray  an  amiable  Princess  ;  but  after  all,  Madam, 
is  my  heart  guilty  ?  Does  the  powerful  influence  which 
your  beauty  possesses  leave  the  mind  any  liberty  ?  Alas  ! 
I  am  much  more  to  be  pitied  than  she  ;  for,  by  losing  me, 
she  loses  only  a  faithless  man.  Such  a  sorrow  can  easily 
be  soothed  ;  but  I,  through  an  unparalleled  misfortune, 
abandon  an  amiable  lady,  whilst  I  endure  all  the  torments 
of  a  rejected  love. 

ELV.  You  have  no  torments  but  what  you  yourself  ere- 


SCENE  in.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS    PRINCE.  233 

ate.  for  our  heart  is  always  in  our  own  power.  It  may 
indeed  sometimes  show  a  little  weakness ;  but,  after  all, 
reason  sways  our  passions  .  .  . 

SCENE  III. — DON  GARCIA,  DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  ALPHON- 
so,  under  the  name  of  Don  Silvio. 

GARC.  I  perceive,  Madam,  that  my  coming  is  somewhat 
unseasonable,  and  disturbs  your  conversation.  I  must 
needs  say  I  did  not  expect  to  find  such  good  company 
here. 

ELV.  Don  Silvio's  appearance  indeed  surprised  me  very 
much  ;  I  no  more  expected  him  than  you  did. 

GARC.  Madam,  since  you  say  so,  I  do  not  believe  you 
were  forewarned  of  this  visit ;  (to  Don  Silvio)  but  you,  sir, 
ought  at  least  to  have  honoured  us  with  some  notice  of 
this  rare  happiness,  so  that  we  should  not  have  been  sur- 
prised, but  enabled  to  pay  you  here  those  attentions 
which  we  would  have  liked  to  render  you. 

ALPH.  My  Lord,  you  are  so  busy  with  warlike  prepara- 
tions, that  I  should  have  been  wrong  had  I  interrupted 
you.  The  sublime  thoughts  of  mighty  conquerors  can 
hardly  stoop  to  the  ordinary  civilities  of  the  world. 

GARC.  But  those  mighty  conquerors,  whose  warlike 
preparations  are  thus  praised,  far  from  loving  secrecy, 
prefer  to  have  witnesses  of  what  they  do  ;  their  minds 
trained  to  glorious  deeds  from  infancy,  make  them  carry 
out  all  their  plans  openly ;  being  always  supported  by 
lofty  sentiments,  they  never  stoop  to  disguise  themselves. 
Do  you  not  compromise  your  heroic  merits  in  coming 
here  secretly,  and  are  you  not  afraid  that  people  may  look 
upon  this  action  as  unworthy  of  you  ? 

ALPH.  I  know  not  whether  any  one  will  blame  my  con- 
duct because  I  have  made  a  visit  here  in  secret;  but  I 
know,  Prince,  that  I  never  courted  obscurity  in  things 
which  require  light.  Were  I  to  undertake  anything  against 
you,  you  should  have  no  cause  to  remark  you  were  sur- 
prised. It  would  depend  upon  yourself  to  guard  against 
it;  I  would  take  care  to  warn  you  beforehand.  Meanwhile 
let  us  continue  upon  ordinary  terms,  and  postpone  the 
settlement  of  our  quarrels  until  all  other  affairs  are  ar- 
ranged. Let  us  suppress  the  outbursts  of  our  rather 


234  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  rACT  11If 

excited  passions,  and  not  forget  in  whose  presence  we  are 
both  speaking.  « 

ELY.  (To  Don  Garcia).  Prince,  you  are  in  the  wrong; 
and  his  visit  is  such  that  you  .  .  . 

GARC.  Ah !  Madam,  it  is  too  much  to  espouse  his  quarrel 
You  ought  to  dissemble  a  little  better  when  you  pretend 
that  you  were  ignorant  he  was  coming  here.  You  defend 
him  so  warmly  and  so  quickly,  that  it  is  no  very  con- 
vincing proof  of  his  visit  being  unexpected. 

ELV.  Your  suspicions  concern  me  so  little,  that  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  deny  your  accusation. 

GARC.  Why  do  you  not  go  farther  in  your  lofty  pride, 
and,  without  hesitation,  lay  bare  your  whole  heart  ?  You 
are  too  prone  to  dissimulation.  Do  not  unsay  anything 
you  once  said.  Be  brief,  be  brief,  lay  aside  all  scruples ; 
say  that  his  passion  has  kindled  yours,  that  his  presence 
delights  you  so  much  .  .  . 

ELV.  And  if  I  have  a  mind  to  love  him,  can  you  hinder 
me?  Do  you  pretend  to  sway  my  heart,  and  have  I  to 
receive  your  commands  whom  I  must  love?  Know  that 
too  much  pride  has  deceived  you,  if  you  think  you  have 
any  authority  over  me ;  my  mind  soars  too  high  to  conceal 
my  feelings  when  I  am  asked  to  declare  them.  I  will  not 
tell  you  whether  the  Count  is  beloved  ;  but  I  may  inform 
you  that  I  esteem  him  highly ;  his  great  merits,  which  I 
admire,  deserve  the  love  of  a  Princess  better  than  you ; 
his  passion,  the  assiduity  he  displays,  impress  me  very 
strongly ;  and  if  the  stern  decree  of  fate  puts  it  out  of  my 
power  to  reward  him  with  my  hand,  I  can  at  least  promise 
him  never  to  become  a  prey  to  your  love.  Without 
keeping  you  any  longer  in  slight  suspense,  I  engage  my- 
self to  act  thus,  and  I  will  keep  my  word.  I  have  opened 
my  heart  to  you,  as  you  desired  it,  and  shown  you  my  real 
feelings.  Are  you  satisfied,  and  do  you  not  think  that,  as 
you  pressed  me,  I  have  sufficiently  explained  myself? 
Consider  whether  there  remains  anything  else  for  me  to  do 
in  order  to  clear  up  your  suspicions.  (  To  Don  Silvio~).  In 
the  meanwhile,  if  you  persist  in  your  resolution  to  please 
me,  do  not  forget,  Count,  that  I  have  need  of  your  arm, 
and  that  whatever  may  be  the  outbreaks  of  temper  of  an  ec- 
centric man,  you  must  do  your  utmost  to  punish  our 


SCENE  iv. J  OK,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  235 

tyrants.  In  a  word,  do  not  listen  to  what  he  may  say  to 
you  in  his  wrath,  and  in  order  to  induce  you  so  to  act, 
remember  that  I  have  entreated  you. 

SCENE  IV. — DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALPHONSO. 

GARC.  Everything  smiles  upon  you,  and  you  proudly 
triumph  oveo*  my  confusion.  It  is  pleasant  to  hear  the 
glorious  confession  of  that  victory  which  you  obtain  over  a 
rival ;  but  it  must  greatly  add  to  your  joy  to  have  that 
rival  a  witness  to  it.  My  pretensions,  openly  set  aside, 
enhance  all  the  more  the  triumph  of  your  love.  Enjoy 
this  great  happiness  fully,  but  know  that  you  have  not  yet 
gained  your  point ;  I  have  too  just  cause  to  be  incensed, 
and  many  things  may  perhaps  ere  then  come  to  pass. 
Despair,  when  it  breaks  out,  goes  a  great  way;  everything 
is  pardonable  when  one  has  been  deceived.  If  the  un- 
grateful woman,  out  of  compliment  to  your  love,  has  just 
now  pledged  her  word  never  to  be  mine,  my  righteous 
indignation  will  discover  the  means  of  preventing  her 
ever  being  yours. 

ALPH.  I  do  not  trouble  myself  about  your  antagonism. 
We  shall  see  who  will  be  deceived  in  his  expectations. 
Each  by  his  valour  will  be  able  to  defend  the  reputation 
of  his  love,  or  avenge  his  misfortune.  But  as  between 
rivals  the  calmest  mind  may  easily  become  irate,  and  as  I 
am  unwilling  that  such  a  conversation  should  exasperate 
either  of  us,  I  wish,  Prince,  you  would  put  me  in  the  way 
of  leaving  this  place,  so  that  the  restraint  I  put  upon  my- 
self may  be  ended. 

GARC.  No,  no,  do  not  fear  that  you  will  be  compelled 
to  violate  the  order  you  received.  Whatever  righteous 
wrath  is  kindled  within  me,  and  which  no  doubt  delights 
you,  Count,  I  know  when  it  should  break  forth.  This 
place  is  open  to  you ;  you  can  leave  it,  proud  of  the  ad- 
vantages you  have  gained.  But  once  more  I  tell  you  that 
my  head  alone  can  put  your  conquest  into  your  hands. 

ALPH.  When  matters  shall  have  reached  that  point,  for- 
tune and  our  arms  will  soon  end  our  quarrel. 


236  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACTIV. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  ALVAREZ. 

ELV.  You  can  go  back,  Don  Alvarez,  but  do  not  expect 
that  you  shall  persuade  me  to  forget  this  offence.  The 
wound  which  my  heart  received  is  incurable;  all  endea- 
vours to  heal  it  make  it  but  fester  the  more.  Does  the 
Prince  think  I  shall  listen  to  some  simulated  compliments? 
No,  no,  he  has  made  me  too  angry;  and  his  fruitless  re- 
pentance, which  led  you  hither,  solicits  a  pardon  which  I 
will  not  grant. 

ALV.  Madam,  he  deserves  your  pity.  Never  was  any 
offence  expiated  with  more  stinging  remorse;  if  you  were 
to  see  his  grief,  it  would  touch  your  heart,  and  you  would 
pardon  him.  It  is  well  known  that  the  Prince  is  of  an  age 
at  which  we  abandon  ourselves  to  first  impressions;  that 
in  fiery  youth  the  passions  hardly  leave  room  for  reflection. 
Don  Lopez,  deceived  by  false  tidings,  was  the  cause  of  his 
master's  mistake.  An  idle  report  that  the  Count  was 
coming,  and  that  you  had  some  understanding  with  those 
who  admitted  him  within  these  walls,  was  indiscreetly 
bruited  about.  The  Prince  believed  it ;  his  love,  deceived 
by  a  false  alarm,  has  caused  all  this  disturbance.  But 
being  now  conscious  of  his  error,  he  is  well  aware  of  your 
innocence;  the  dismissal  of  Don  Lopez  clearly  proves 
how  great  his  remorse  is  for  the  outburst  of  which  he  has 
been  guilty. 

ELV.  Alas!  He  too  readily  believes  me  innocent;  he 
is  not  yet  quite  sure  of  it.  Tell  him  to  weigh  all  things 
well,  and  not  to  make  too  much  haste,  for  fear  of  being 
deceived. 

ALV.  Madam,  he  knows  too  well.    .    .    . 

ELV.  I  pray  you,  Don  Alvarez,  let  us  no  longer  continue 
a  conversation  which  vexes  me :  it  revives  in  me  some 
sadness,  at  the  very  moment  that  a  more  important  sorrow 
oppresses  me.  Yes,  I  have  received  unexpectedly  the  news 
of  a  very  great  misfortune;  the  report  of  the  death  of  the 
Countess  Inez  has  filled  my  heart  with  so  much  wretched- 
ness, that  there  is  no  room  for  any  other  grief. 

ALV.  Madam,  these  tidings  may  not  be  true;  but  when 


SCENE  iv.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  237 

I  return,  I  shall  have  to  communicate  to  the  Prince  a  cruel 
piece  of  news. 

ELV.  However  great  his  sufferings  may  be,  they  fall 
short  of  what  he  deserves. 

SCENE  II. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  ELIZA. 

EL.  I  waited,  Madam  until  he  was  gone,  to  tell  you 
something  that  will  free  you  from  your  anxiety,  since  this 
very  moment  you  can  be  informed  what  has  become  of 
Donna  Inez.  A  certain  person,  whom  I  do  not  know,  has 
sent  one  of  his  servants  to  ask  an  audience  of  you,  in 
order  to  tell  you  all. 

ELV.  Eliza,  I  must  see  him ;  let  him  come  quickly. 

EL.  He  does  not  wish  to  be  seen  except  by  yourself ; 
by  this  messenger  he  requests,  Madam  that  his  visit  may 
take  place  without  any  one  being  present. 

ELV.  Well,  we  shall  be  alone,  I  will  give  orders  about 
that,  whilst  you  bring  him  here.  How  great  is  my  impa- 
tience just  now  !  Ye  fates,  shall  these  tidings  be  full  of 
joy  or  grief? 

SCENE  III. — DON  PEDRO,  ELIZA. 

EL.  Where  .... 

PED.  If  you  are  looking  for  me,  Madam,  here  I  am. 

EL.  Where  is  your  master  .... 

PED.  He  is  hard  by ;  shall  I  fetch  him  ? 

EL.  Desire  him  to  come ;  tell  him  that  he  is  impatiently 
expected,  and  that  no  one  shall  see  him.  (Alone).  I  can- 
not unravel  this  mystery ;  all  the  precautions  he  takes 
.*  .  .  .  But  here  he  is  already. 

SCENE  IV. — DONNA  INEZ,  in  mari s  dress,  ELIZA. 

EL.  My  Lord,  in  order  to  wait  for  you,  we  have  pre- 
pared ....  But  what  do  I  see  ?  Ah  !  Madam,  my 
eyes  .... 

INEZ.  Do  not  tell  any  one,  Eliza,  I  am  here;  allow 
me  to  pass  my  sad  days  in  peace.  I  pretended  to  kill 
myself.  By  this  feigned  death  I  got  rid  of  all  my  tyrants ; 
for  this  is  the  name  my  relatives  deserve.  Thus  I  have 
avoided  a  dreadful  marriage ;  rather  than  have  consented, 
I  would  really  have  killed  myself.  This  dress,  and  the 
report  of  my  death,  will  keep  the  secret  of  my  fate  from 


238  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  iv. 

all,  and  secure  me  against  that  unjust  persecution  which 
may  even  follow  me  hither. 

EL.  My  surprise  might  have  betrayed  you,  if  I  had  seen 
you  in  public ;  but  go  into  this  room  and  put  an  end  to 
the  sorrow  of  the  Princess ;  her  heart  will  be  filled  with 
joy  when  she  shall  behold  you.  You  will  find  her  there 
alone ;  she  has  taken  care  to  see  you  by  herself,  and  with- 
out any  witnesses. 

SCENE  V. — DON  ALVAREZ,  ELIZA. 
EL.  Is  this  not  Don  Alvarez  whom  I  see  ? 
ALV.  The  Prince  sends  me  to  entreat  you  to  use  your 
utmost  influence  in  his  favour.     His  life  is  despaired  of, 
unless  he  obtains  by  your  means,  fair  Eliza,  one  moment's 
conversation   with    Donna  Elvirax;    he  is  beside  himself 
.    .    .  but  here  he  is. 

SCENE  VI. — DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALVAREZ,  ELIZA. 

GARC.  Alas,  Eliza,  feel  for  my  great  misfortune ;  take 
pity  on  a  heart  full  of  wretchedness,  and  given  up  to 
the  bitterest  sorrow. 

EL.  I  should  look  upon  your  torments,  my  Lord,  with 
other  eyes  than  the  Princess  does ;  Heaven  or  our  mood 
is  the  reason  why  we  judge  differently  about  everything. 
But,  as  she  blames  you,  and  fancies  your  jealousy  to  be  a 
frightful  monster,  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  should  obey 
her  wishes,  and  endeavour  to  conceal  from  her  eyes  what 
offends  them.  A  lover  undoubtedly  acts  wisely  when  he 
tries  to  suit  his  temper  to  ours ;  a  hundred  acts  of  polite- 
ness have  less  influence  than  this  unison,  which  makes  two 
hearts  appear  as  if  stirred  by  the  same  feelings.  This 
similarity  firmly  unites  them ;  for  we  love  nothing  so 
much  as  what  resembles  ourselves. 

GARC.  I  know  it,  but  alas !  merciless  fate  opposes  such 
a  well  intentioned  plan  ;  in  spite  of  all  my  endeavours,  it 
continually  lays  a  snare  for  me,  which  my  heart  cannot 
avoid.  It  is  not  because  the  ungrateful  woman,  in  the 
presence  of  my  rival,  avowed  her  love  for  him,  and  not  for 
me ;  and  that  with  such  an  excess  of  tenderness,  that  it  is 
impossible  I  can  ever  forget  her  cruelty.  But  as  too  much 
ardour  led  me  to  believe  erroneously  that  she  had  intro- 


SCENE  vii.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  339 

duced  him  into  this  place,  I  should  be  very  much  an- 
noyed if  I  left  upon  her  mind  the  impression  that  she  has 
any  just  cause  of  complaint  against  me.  Yes,  if  I  am 
abandoned,  it  shall  be  only  through  her  faithlessness ;  for 
as  I  have  come  to  beg  her  pardon  for  my  impetuosity,  she 
shall  have  no  excuse  for  ingratitude. 

EL.  Give  a  little  time  for  her  resentment  to  cool,  and 
do  not  see  her  again  so  soon,  my  Lord. 

GARC.  Ah  !  if  you  love  me,  induce  her  to  see  me ;  she 
must  grant  me  that  permission  ;  I  do  not  leave  this  spot 
until  her  cruel  disdain  at  least  .... 

EL.  Pray,  my  Lord,  defer  this  purpose. 

GARC.  No ;  make  no  more  idle  excuses. 

EL.  (Aside).  The  Princess  herself  must  find  means  to 
send  him  away,  if  she  says  but  one  word  to  him.  (  To  Don 
Garcia).  Stay  here,  my  Lord,  I  shall  go  and  speak  to 
her. 

GARC.  Tell  her  that  I  instantly  dismissed  the  person 
whose  information  was  the  cause  of  my  offence,  that  Don 
Lopez  shall  never  .  .  . 

SCENE  VII. — DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALVAREZ. 

GARC.  {Looking  in  at  the  door  which  Eliza  left  half 
open).  What  do  I  see,  righteous  Heavens !  Can  I  believe 
my  eyes?  Alas!  they  are,  doubtless,  but  too  faithful  wit- 
nesses ;  this  is  the  most  terrible  of  all  my  great  troubles  ! 
This  fatal  blow  completely  overwhelms  me  !  When  sus- 
picions raged  within  me,  it  was  Heaven  itself,  vaguely  but 
ominously  foretelling  me  this  horrible  disgrace. 

ALV.  What  have  you  seen,  my  Lord,  to  disturb  you? 

GARC.  I  have  seen  what  I  can  hardly  conceive;  the 
overthrow  of  all  creation  would  less  astonish  me  than  this 
accident.  It  is  all  over  with  me  ...  Fate  ...  I  can- 
not speak. " 

ALV.  My  Lord,  endeavour  to  be  composed. 

GARC.  I  have  seen  .    .    .  Vengeance  !     O  Heaven  ! 

ALV.  What  sudden  alarm  .    .    .  ? 

18  The  words  from  "  What  have  you  seen  "  till  "  I  cannot  speak,"  are 
with  some  slight  alterations,  found  in  the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv.,  Scene  a 
(see  Vol.  II). 


240  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  LACT  ry. 

GARC.  It  will  kill  me,  Don  Alvarez,  it  is  but  too  cer- 
tain. 

ALV.  But,  my  Lord,  what  can  .    .    . 

GARC.  Alas  !  Everything  is  undone.  I  am  betrayed,  I 
am  murdered  ! 16  A  man,  (can  I  say  it  and  still  live)  a 
man  in  the  arms  of  the  faithless  Elvira ! 

ALV.  The  Princess,  my  Lord,  is  so  virtuous  .    .    . 

GARC.  Ah,  Don  Alvarez,  do  not  gainsay  what  I  have 
seen.  It  is  too  much  to  defend  her  reputation,  after  my 
eyes  have  beheld  so  heinous  an  action. 

ALV.  Our  passions,  my  Lord,  often  cause  us  to  mistake 
a  deception  for  a  reality ;  to  believe  that  a  mind  nourished 
by  virtue  can  .... 

GARC.  Prithee  leave  me,  Don  Alvarez,  a  counsellor  is 
in  the  way  upon  such  an  occasion ;  I  will  take  counsel 
only  of  my  wrath. 

ALV.  (Aside}.  It  is  better  not  to  answer  him  when  his 
mind  is  so  upset. 

GARC.  Oh  !  how  deeply  am  I  wounded  !  But  I  shall 

see  who  it  is,  and  punish  with  my  own  hand But 

here  she  comes.  Restrain  thyself,  O  rage  ! 

SCENE    VIII. — DONNA    ELVIRA,    DON    GARCIA,    DON 
ALVAREZ. 

ELV.  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  However  bold  you 
may  be,  how  can  you  hope  for  pardon,  after  the  way  you 
have  behaved  ?  Dare  you  again  present  yourself  before 
me  ?  And  what  can  you  say  that  will  become  me  to  hear  ? 

GARC.  That  all  the  wickedness  of  this  world  is  not  to 
be  compared  to  your  perfidy ;  that  neither  fate,  hell,  nor 
Heaven  in  its  wrath  ever  produced  anything  so  wicked  as 
you  are." 

ELV.  How  is  this  ?  I  expected  you  would  excuse  your 
outrage ;  but  I  find  you  use  other  words. 

GARC.  Yes,  yes,  other  words.  You  did  not  think  that, 
the  door  being  by  accident  left  half  open,  I  should  dis- 

16  The  last  sentences  of  Don  Alvarez  and  Don  Garcia  are  also  found  in 
the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv.,  Scene  2  (see  Vol.  II). 

17  The  above  words  of  Don  Garcia  are  also  in  the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv., 
Scene  3  (see  Vol.  II). 


SCENE  vin.J  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  241 

cover  the  caitiff  in  your  arms,  and  thus  behold  your 
shame,  and  my  doom.  Is  it  the  happy  lover  who  has  re- 
turned, or  some  other  rival  to  me  unknown  ?  O  Heaven  ! 
grant  me  sufficient  strength  to  bear  such  tortures.  Now, 
blush,  you  have  cause  to  do  so  ;  your  treachery  is  laid 
bare.  This  is  what  the  agitations  of  my  mind  prognosti- 
cated ;  it  was  not  without  cause  that  my  love  took  alarm  ; 
my  continual  suspicions  were  hateful  to  you,  but  I  was 
trying  to  discover  the  misfortune  my  eyes  have  beheld  ; 
in  spite  of  all  your  care,  and  your  skill  in  dissembling, 
my  star  foretold  me  what  I  had  to  fear.  But  do  not  ima- 
gine that  I  will  bear  unavenged  the  slight  of  being  in- 
sulted !  I  know  that  we  have  no  command  over  our  in- 
clinations ;  that  love  will  everywhere  spring  up  spontane- 
ously ;  that  there  is  no  entering  a  heart  by  force,  and  that 
every  soul  is  free  to  name  its  conqueror;  therefore  I  should 
have  no  reason  to  complain,  if  you  had  spoken  to  me 
without  dissembling ;  you  would  then  have  sounded  the 
death-knell  of  my  hope,  but  my  heart  could  have  blamed 
fortune  alone.  But  to  see  my  love  encouraged  by  a  de- 
ceitful avowal  on  your  part,  is  so  treacherous  and  perfidi- 
ous an  action,  that  it  cannot  meet  with  too  great  a  punish- 
ment ;  I  can  allow  my  resentment  to  do  anything.  No, 
no,  after  such  an  outrage,  hope  for  nothing.  I  am  no 
longer  myself,  I  am  mad  with  rage.18  Betrayed  on  all 
sides,  placed  in  so  sad  a  situation,  my  love  must  avenge 
itself  to  the  utmost ;  I  shall  sacrifice  everything  here  to 
my  frenzy,  and  end  my  despair  with  my  life. 

ELY.  I  have  listened  to  you  patiently ;  can  I,  in  my 
turn,  speak  to  you  freely  ? 

GARC.  And  by  what  eloquent  speeches,  inspired  by 
cunning.  .  .  . 

ELY.  If  you  have  still  something  to  say,  pray  continue; 
I  am  ready  to  hear  you.  If  not,  I  hope  you  will  at  least 
listen  for  a  few  minutes  quietly  to  what  I  have  to  say. 

GARC.  Well,  then,  I  am  listening.  Ye  Heavens !  what 
patience  is  mine ! 


18 The  whole  of  this  speech,  from  "Now  blush,"  until  "mad  with 
rage,"  has,  with  few  alterations,  been  used  in  the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv., 
Scene  3  (see  Vol.  II). 

VOL.  I.  Q 


242  DON   GARCIA   OK   NAVARRE  ;  rACT  VI. 

ELY.  I  restrain  my  indignation,  and  will  without  any 
passion  reply  to  your  discourse,  so  full  of  fury. 

GARC.  It  is  because  you  see  .  .  . 

ELV.  I  have  listened  to  you  as  long  as  you  pleased ; 
pray  do  the  like  to  me.  I  wonder  at  my  destiny,  and  I 
believe  there  was  never  any  thing  under  Heaven  so  mar- 
vellous, nothing  more  strange  and  incomprehensible,  and 
nothing  more  opposed  to  reason.  I  have  a  lover,  who 
incessantly  does  nothing  else  but  persecute  me ;  who, 
amidst  all  the  expressions  of  his  love,  does  not  entertain 
for  me  any  feelings  of  esteem  ;  whose  heart,  on  which  my 
eyes  have  made  an  impression,  does  not  do  justice  to  the 
lofty  rank  granted  to  me  by  Heaven  ;  who  will  not  defend 
the  innocence  of  my  actions  against  the  slightest  semblance 
of  false  appearances.  Yes,  I  see  .  .  .  {Don  Garcia  shows, 
some  signs  of  impatience,  and  wishes  to  speak).  Above  all, 
do  not  interrupt  me.  I  see  that  my  unhappiness  is  so 
great,  that  one  who  says  he  loves  me,  and  who,  even  if 
the  whole  world  were  to  attack  my  reputation,  ought  to 
claim  to  defend  it  against  all,  is  he  who  is  its  greatest  foe. 
In  the  midst  of  his  love,  he  lets  no  opportunity  pass  of 
suspecting  me ;  he  not  only  suspects  me,  but  breaks  out 
into  such  violent  fits  of  jealousy  that  love  cannot  suffer 
without  being  wounded.  Far  from  acting  like  a  lover  who 
would  rather  die  than  offend  her  whom  he  loves,  who 
gently  complains  and  seeks  respectfully  to  have  explained 
what  he  thinks  suspicious,  he  proceeds  to  extremities  as 
soon  as  he  doubts,  and  is  full  of  rage,  insults,  and  threats. 
However,  this  day  I  will  shut  my  eyes  to  everything  that 
makes  him  odious  to  me,  and  out  of  mere  kindness  afford 
him  an  opportunity  of  being  reconciled,  though  he  in- 
sulted me  anew.  This  great  rage  with  which  you  attacked 
me  proceeds  from  what  you  accidentally  saw ;  I  should 
be  wrong  to  deny  what  you  have  seen  ;  I  own  you  might 
have  some  reason  to  be  disturbed  at  it. 

GARC.  And  is  it  not  .    .    . 

ELV.  Listen  to  me  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  know 
what  I  have  resolved.  It  is  necessary  that  our  fates  should 
be  decided.  You  are  now  upon  the  brink  of  a  great  pre- 
cipice ;  you  will  either  fall  over  it,  or  save  yourself,  ac- 
cording to  the  resolution  you  shall  take.  If,  notwith- 


SCBNBVIII.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  243 

standing  what  you  have  seen,  Prince,  you  act  towards  me 
as  you  ought,  and  ask  no  other  proof  but  that  I  tell  you 
you  are  wrong  ;  if  you  readily  comply  with  my  wishes  and 
are  willing  to  believe  me  innocent  upon  my  word  alone, 
and  no  longer  yield  to  every  suspicion,  but  blindly  believe 
what  my  heart  tells  you ;  then  this  submission,  this  proof 
of  esteem,  shall  cancel  all  your  offences ;  I  instantly  retract 
what  I  said  when  excited  by  well-founded  anger.  And  if 
hereafter  I  can  choose  for  myself,  without  prejudicing 
what  I  owe  to  my  birth,  then  my  honour,  being  satisfied 
with  the  respect  you  so  quickly  show,  promises  to  reward 
your  love  with  my  heart  and  my  hand.  But  listen  now 
to  what  I  say.  If  you  care  so  little  for  my  offer  as  to 
refuse  completely  to  abandon  your  jealous  suspicions  ;  if 
the  assurance  which  my  heart  and  birth  give  you  do  not 
suffice ;  if  the  mistrust  that  darkens  your  mind  compels 
me,  though  innocent,  to  convince  you,  and  to  produce  a 
clear  proof  of  my  offended  virtue,  I  am  ready  to  do  so, 
and  you  shall  be  satisfied ;  but  you  must  then  renounce 
me  at  once,  and  for  ever  give  up  all  pretensions  to  my 
hand.  I  swear  by  Him  who  rules  the  Heavens,  that, 
whatever  fate  may  have  in  store  for  us,  I  will  rather  die 
than  be  yours !  I  trust  these  two  proposals  may  satisfy 
you  ;  now  choose  which  of  the  two  pleases  you. 

GARC.  Righteous  Heaven  !  Was  there  ever  anything 
more  artful  and  treacherous  ?  Could  hellish  malice  pro- 
duce any  perfidy  so  black?  Could  it  have  invented  a 
more  severe  and  merciless  way  to  embarrass  a  lover  ?  Ah ! 
ungrateful  woman,  you  know  well  how  to  take  advantage 
of  my  great  weakness,  even  against  myself,  and  to  employ 
for  your  own  purposes  that  excessive,  astonishing,  and 
fatal  love  which  you  inspired.19  Because  you  have  been 
taken  by  surprise,  and  cannot  find  an  excuse,  you  cun- 
ningly offer  to  forgive  me.  You  pretend  to  be  good- 
natured,  and  invent  some  trick  to  divert  the  consequences 
of  my  vengeance ;  you  wish  to  ward  off  the  blow  that 
threatens  a  wretch,  by  craftily  entangling  me  with  your 
offer.  Yes,  your  artifices  would  fain  avert  an  explanation 

19  The  phrase  "  Ah !  ungrateful  woman  "  until  "  inspired  "  is  also  found 
in  the  Misanthrope,  Act  iv..  Scene  3  (see  Vol.  II). 


244  DON   GARCIA    OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  iv. 

which  must  condemn  you ;  pretending  to  be  completely 
innocent,  you  will  give  convincing  proof  of  it  only  upon 
such  conditions  as  you  think  and  most  fervently  trust  I 
will  never  accept ;  but  you  are  mistaken  if  you  think  to 
surprise  me.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  resolved  to  see  how  you  can 
defend  yourself;  by  what  miracle  you  can  justify  the 
horrible  sight  I  beheld,  and  condemn  my  anger. 

ELV.  Consider  that,  by  this  choice,  you  engage  your- 
self to  abandon  all  pretensions  to  the  heart  of  Donna 
Elvira. 

GARC.  Be  it  so  !  I  consent  to  everything  ;  besides,  in 
my  present  condition,  I  have  no  longer  any  pretensions. 

ELV.  You  will  repent  the  wrath  you  have  displayed. 

GARC.  No,  no,  your  argument  is  a  mere  evasion;  I 
ought  rather  to  tell  you  that  somebody  else  may  perhaps 
soon  repent.  The  wretch,  whoever  he  may  be,  shall  not 
be  fortunate  enough  to  save  his  life,  if  I  wreak  my  ven- 
geance. 

ELV.  Ha  !  This  can  no  longer  be  borne  ;  I  am  too  an- 
gry foolishly  to  preserve  longer  my  good  nature.  Let  me 
abandon  the  wretch  to  his  own  devices,  and,  since  he  will 
undergo  his  doom,  let  him — Eliza  !  .  .  .  ( To  Don  Gar- 
cia]. You  compel  me  to  act  thus ;  but  you  shall  see  that 
this  outrage  will  be  the  last. 

SCENE  IX. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  GARCIA,  ELIZA,  DON 
ALVAREZ. 

ELV.  (To  Eliza).  Desire  my  beloved  to  come  forth 
.  .  .  Go,  you  understand  me,  say  that  I  wish  it. 

GARC.  And  can  I  ... 

ELV.  Patience,  you  will  be  satisfied. 

EL.  (Aside,  going  ouf).  This  is  doubtless  some  new  trick 
of  our  jealous  lover. 

ELV.  Take  care  at  least  that  this  righteous  indignation 
perseveres  in  its  ardour  to  the  end ;  above  all,  do  not 
henceforth  forget  what  price  you  have  paid  to  see  your 
suspicions  removed. 

SCENE  X.  —  DONNA  ELVIRA,  DON  GARCIA,  DONNA  INEZ, 
ELIZA,  DON  ALVAREZ. 

ELV.    (To   Don    Garcia,   showing  him   Donna   Inez), 


SCKNB  xi.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  245 

Thanks  to  Heaven,  behold  the  cause  of  the  generous  sus- 
picions you  showed.  Look  well  on  that  face,  and  see  if 
you  do  not  at  once  recognize  the  features  of  Donna  Inez. 

GARC.  O  Heavens! 

ELV.  If  the  rage  which  fills  your  heart  prevents  you 
from  using  your  eyes,  you  can  ask  others,  and  thus  leave 
no  room  for  doubt.  It  was  necessary  to  pretend  she  was 
dead,  so  that  she  might  escape  from  the  tyrant  who  perse- 
cuted her :  she  disguised  herself  in  this  manner  the  better 
to  profit  by  her  pretended  death.  (To Donna  Inez).  You 
will  pardon  me,  Madam,  for  having  consented  to  betray 
your  secrets  and  to  frustrate  your  expectations ;  but  I  am 
exposed  to  Don  Garcia's  insolence ;  I  am  no  longer  free 
to  do  as  I  wish ;  my  honour  is  a  prey  to  his  suspicions,  and 
is  every  moment  compelled  to  defend  itself.  This  jealous 
man  accidentally  saw  us  embrace,  and  then  he  behaved 
most  disgracefully.  (To  Don  Garcia}.  Yes,  behold  the 
cause  of  your  sudden  rage,  and  the  convincing  witness 
of  my  disgrace.  Now,  like  a  thorough  tyrant,  enjoy  the 
explanation  you  have  provoked  ;  but  know  that  I  shall 
never  blot  from  my  memory  the  heinous  outrage  done  to 
my  reputation.  And  if  ever  I  forget  my  oath,  may  Hea- 
ven shower  its  severest  chastisements  upon  my  head  ;  may  a 
thunderbolt  descend  upon  me  if  ever  I  resolve  to  listen 
to  your  love.  Come,  Madam,  let  us  leave  this  spot,  poi- 
soned by  the  looks  of  a  furious  monster ;  let  us  quickly 
flee  from  his  bitter  attacks,  let  us  avoid  the  consequences 
of  his  mad  rage,  and  animated  by  just  motives,  let  us 
only  pray  that  we  may  soon  be  delivered  from  his  hands. 

INEZ.  {To  Don  Garcia).  My  Lord,  your  unjust  and  vio- 
lent suspicions  have  wronged  virtue  itself. 

SCENE  XI. — DON  GARCIA,  DON  ALVAREZ. 

GARC.  What  gleam  of  light  clearly  shows  me  my  error, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  involves  my  senses  in  such  a  pro- 
found horror  that,  dejected,  I  can  see  nothing  but  the 
dreadful  object  of  a  remorse  that  kills  me  !  Ah  !  Don  Al- 
varez, I  perceive  you  were  in  the  right ;  but  hell  breathed 
its  poison  into  my  soul ;  through  a  merciless  fatality  I  am 
my  worst  enemy.  What  does  it  benefit  me  to  love  with 
the  most  ardent  passion  that  an  amorous  heart  ever  dis- 


246  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  v. 

played,  if  this  love  continually  engenders  suspicions  which 
torment  me,  and  thus  renders  itself  hateful  !  I  must,  I 
must  justly  revenge  by  my  death  the  outrage  committed 
against  her  divine  charms.  What  advice  can  I  follow  now  ? 
Alas  !  I  have  lost  the  only  object  which  made  life  dear  to 
me  !  As  I  relinquished  all  hope  of  ever  being  beloved  by 
her,  it  is  much  easier  to  abandon  life  itself. 

ALV.  My  Lord  .    .    . 

GARC.  No,  Don  Alvarez,  my  death  is  necessary.  No 
pains,  no  arguments  shall  turn  me  from  it ;  yet  my 
approaching  end  must  do  some  signal  service  to  the  Prin- 
cess. Animated  by  this  noble  desire,  I  will  seek  some 
glorious  means  of  quitting  life  ;  perform  some  mighty 
deed  worthy  of  my  love,  so  that  in  expiring  for  her  sake 
she  may  pity  me,  and  say,  it  was  excess  of  love  that  was 
my  sole  offence.  Thus  she  shall  see  herself  avenged  !  I 
must  attempt  a  deed  of  daring,  and  with  my  own  hand 
give  to  Mauregat  that  death  he  so  justly  deserves.  My 
boldness  will  forestall  the  blow  with  which  Castile  openly 
threatens  him.  With  my  last  breath,  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  depriving  my  rival  of  performing  such  a  glori- 
ous deed. 

ALV.  So  great  a  service,  my  Lord,  may  perhaps  obliter- 
ate all  remembrance  of  your  offence  ;  but  to  risk  .  .  . 

GARC.  Let  me  fulfil  my  duty,  and  strive  to  make  my 
despair  aid  in  this  noble  attempt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — DON  ALVAREZ,  ELIZA. 

ALV.  No,  never  was  anyone  more  astonished.  He  had 
just  planned  that  lofty  undertaking  ;  inspired  by  despair, 
he  was  all  anxiety  to  kill  Mauregat ;  eager  to  show  his 
courage,  and  to  reap  the  advantage  of  this  lawful  deed ; 
to  endeavour  to  obtain  his  pardon,  and  prevent  the  mortifi- 
cation of  seeing  his  rival  share  his  glory.  As  he  was  leav- 
ing these  walls,  a  too  accurate  report  brought  him  the  sad 
tidings,  that  the  very  rival  whom  he  wished  to  forestall  had 
already  gained  the  honour  he  hoped  to  acquire  :  had  an- 
ticipated him,  in  slaying  the  traitor,  and  urged  the  appear- 
ance of  Don  Alphonso,  who  will  reap  the  fruits  of  Don 


SCENE  ii.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  247 

Silvio's  prompt  success,  and  come  to  fetch  the  Princess, 
his  sister.  It  is  publicly  said  and  generally  believed,  that 
Don  Alphonso  intends  to  give  the  hand  of  his  sister  as  a 
reward  for  the  great  services  Don  Silvio  has  rendered  him, 
by  clearing  for  him  a  way  to  the  throne. 

EL.  Yes,  Donna  Elvira  has  heard  this  news,  which  has 
been  confirmed  by  old  Don  Louis,  who  has  sent  her 
word  that  Leon  is  now  awaiting  her  happy  return  and  that 
of  Don  Alphonso,  and  that  there,  since  fortune  smiles 
upon  her,  she  shall  receive  a  husband  from  the  hands  of 
her  brother.  It  is  plain  enough  from  these  few  words  that 
Don  Silvio  will  be  her  husband. 

ALV.  This  blow  to  the  Prince's  heart  .    .    . 

EL.  Will  certainly  be  severely  felt.  I  cannot  help  pity- 
ing his  distress;  yet,  if  I  judge  rightly,  he  is  still  dear  to 
the  heart  he  has  offended ;  it  did  not  appear  to  me  that 
the  Princess  was  well  pleased  when  she  heard  of  Don 
Silvio's  success,  and  of  the  approaching  arrival  of  her 
brother,  or  with  the  letter;  but  .  .  . 

SCENE  II.: — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DONNA   INEZ,   ELIZA,    DON 
ALVAREZ. 

ELV.  Don  Alvarez,  let  the  Prince  come  hither.  {Don 
Alvarez  leaves}.  Give  me  leave,  Madam,  to  speak  to  him 
in  your  presence  concerning  this  piece  of  news,  which 
greatly  surprises  me;  and  do  not  accuse  me  of  changing 
my  mind  too  quickly,  if  I  lose  all  my  animosity  against 
him.  His  unforeseen  misfortune  has  extinguished  it ;  he 
is  unhappy  enough  without  the  addition  of  my  hatred. 
Heaven,  who  treats  him  with  so  much  rigour,  has  but  too 
well  executed  the  oaths  I  took.  When  my  honour  was 
outraged,  I  vowed  openly  never  to  be  his ;  but  as  I  see 
that  fate  is  against  him,  I  think  I  have  treated  his  love  with 
too  great  severity ;  the  ill  success  that  follows  whatever  he 
does  for  my  sake,  cancels  his  offence,  and  restores  him  my 
love.  Yes,  I  have  been  too  well  avenged ;  the  wayward- 
ness of  his  fate  disarms  my  anger,  and  now,  full  of  com- 
passion, I  am  seeking  to  console  an  unhappy  lover  for  his 
misfortunes.  I  believe  his  love  well  deserves  the  compas- 
sion I  wish  to  show  him. 

INEZ.  Madam,  it  would  be  wrong  to  blame  the  tender 


348  DON  GARCIA  OF   NAVARRE  ;  [ACT  v. 

sentiments  you  feel  for  him.     What  he  has  done  for  you 
.    .    .  He  comes ;  and  his  paleness  shows  how  deeply  he 
is  affected  by  this  surprising  stroke  of  fate. 

SCENE  III. — DON  GARCIA,  DONNA  ELVIRA,  DONNA  INEZ, 
ELIZA. 

GARC.  Madam,  you  must  think  me  very  bold  in  daring 
to  come  here  to  show  you  my  hateful  presence  .  .  . 

ELV.  Prince,  let  us  talk  no  more  of  my  resentment ; 
your  fate  has  made  a  change  in  my  heart.  Its  severity, 
and  your  wretched  condition  have  extinguished  my  anger, 
and  our  peace  is  made.  Yes,  though  you  have  deserved 
the  misfortunes  with  which  Heaven  in  its  wrath  has 
afflicted  you;  though  your  jealous  suspicions  have  so 
ignominiously,  so  almost  incredibly,  sullied  my  fame,  yet 
I  must  needs  confess  that  I  so  far  commiserate  your  mis- 
fortune, as  to  be  somewhat  displeased  with  our  success.  I 
hate  the  famous  service  Don  Silvio  has  rendered  us,  be- 
cause my  heart  must  be  sacrificed  to  reward  it ;  I  would, 
were  it  in  my  power,  bring  back  the  moments  when 
destiny  put  only  my  oath  in  my  way.  But  you  know  that 
it  is  the  doom  of  such  as  we  are,  to  be  always  the  slaves 
of  public  interests;  that  Heaven  has  ordained  that  my 
brother,  who  disposes  of  my  hand,  is  likewise  my  King. 
Yield,  as  I  do,  Prince,  to  that  necessity  which  rank  im- 
poses upon  those  of  lofty  birth.  If  you  are  very  unfor- 
tunate in  your  love,  be  comforted  by  the  interest  I  take  in 
you ;  and  though  you  have  been  overwhelmed  by  fate,  do 
not  employ  the  power  which  your  valour  gives  you  in  this 
place  :  it  would,  doubtless  be  unworthy  of  you  to  struggle 
against  destiny ;  whilst  it  is  in  vain  to  oppose  its  decrees, 
a  prompt  submission  shows  a  lofty  courage.  Do  not  there- 
fore resist  its  orders ;  but  open  the  gates  of  Astorga  to  my 
brother  who  is  coming ;  allow  my  sad  heart  to  yield  to 
those  rights  which  he  is  entitled  to  claim  from  me ;  perhaps 
that  fatal  duty,  which  I  owe  him  against  my  will,  may  not 
go  so  far  as  you  imagine. 

GARC.  Madam,  you  give  me  proofs  of  exquisite  goodness 
in  endeavouring  to  lighten  the  blow  that  is  prepared  for 
me,  but  without  such  pains  you  may  let  fall  upon  me  all 
the  wrath  which  your  duty  demands.  In  my  present  condi- 


SCENE  iv.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS  PRINCE.  249 

tion,  I  can  say  nothing.  I  have  deserved  the  worst  punish- 
ments which  fate  can  inflict ;  and  I  know  that,  whatever 
evils  I  may  suffer,  I  have  deprived  myself  of  the  right  to 
complain  of  them.  Alas,  amidst  all  my  misfortunes,  on  what 
grounds  can  I  be  bold  enough  to  utter  any  complaint  against 
you?  My  love  has  rendered  itself  a  thousand  times  odious, 
and  has  done  nothing  but  outrage  your  glorious  charms; 
when  by  a  just  and  noble  sacrifice,  I  was  endeavouring  to 
render  some  service  to  your  family,  fortune  abandoned  me, 
and  made  me  taste  the  bitter  grief  of  being  forestalled 
by  a  rival.  After  this,  Madam,  I  have  nothing  more  to 
say.  I  deserve  the  blow  which  I  expect;  and  I  see  it 
coming,  without  daring  to  call  upon  your  heart  to  assist  me. 
What  remains  for  me  in  this  extreme  misfortune  is  to  seek 
a  remedy  in  myself,  and,  by  a  death  which  I  long  for,  free 
my  heart  from  all  those  tribulations.  Yes,  Don  Alphonso 
will  soon  be  here;  already  my  rival  has  made  his  ap- 
pearance; he  seems  to  have  hurried  hither  from  Leon,  to 
receive  his  reward  for  having  killed  the  tyrant.  Do  not 
fear  that  I  shall  use  my  power  within  these  walls  to  offer 
him  any  resistance.  If  you  allowed  it,  there  is  no  being 
on  earth  which  I  would  not  defy  in  order  to  keep  you;  but 
it  is  not  for  me,  whom  you  detest,  to  expect  such  an  honour- 
able permission.  No  vain  attempts  of  mine  shall  offer  the 
smallest  opposition  to  the  execution  of  your  just  designs. 
No,  Madam,  your  feelings  are  under  no  compulsion;  you 
are  perfectly  free.  I  will  open  the  gates  of  Astorga  to 
the  happy  conqueror,  and  suffer  the  utmost  severity  of 
fate. 

SCENE  IV. — DONNA  ELVIRA,  DONNA  INEZ,  ELIZA. 

ELV.  Madam,  do  not  ascribe  all  my  afflictions  to 
the  interest  which  I  take  in  his  unhappy  lot.  You  will 
do  me  but  justice  if  you  believe  that  you  have  a  large 
share  in  my  heart-felt  grief;  that  I  care  more  for  friend- 
ship than  for  love.  If  I  complain  of  any  dire  misfortune, 
ij  is  because  Heaven  in  its  anger  has  borrowed  from  me 
those  shafts  which  it  hurls  against  you,  and  has  made  my 
looks  guilty  of  kindling  a  passion  which  treats  your  kind 
heart  unworthily. 

INEZ.  This  is  an  accident  caused,  doubtless,  by  your  looks, 


250  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  v. 

for  which  you  ought  not  to  quarrel  with  Heaven.  If  the 
feeble  charms  which  my  countenance  displays  have  exposed 
me  to  the  misfortune  of  my  lover  abandoning  me,  Heaven 
could  not  better  soften  such  a  blow  than  by  making  use 
of  you  to  captivate  that  heart.  I  ought  not  to  blush  for  an 
inconstancy  which  indicates  the  difference  between  your 
attractions  and  mine.  If  this  change  makes  me  sigh,  it  is 
from  foreseeing  that  it  will  be  fatal  to  your  love;  amidst 
the  sorrow  caused  by  friendship,  I  am  angry  for  your  sake 
that  my  few  attractions  have  failed  to  retain  a  heart  whose 
devotion  interferes  so  greatly  with  the  love  you  feel  for 
another. 

ELV.  Rather  blame  your  silence,  which,  without  reason, 
concealed  the  understanding  between  your  hearts.  If  I 
had  known  this  secret  sooner,  it  might  perhaps  have 
spared  us  both  some  sad  trouble  ;  I  might  then  coldly  and 
justly  have  refused  to  listen  to  the  sighs  of  a  fickle  lover, 
and  perhaps  have  sent  back  whence  they  strayed  .  .  . 

INEZ.   Madam,  he  is  here. 

ELV.  You  can  remain  without  even  looking  at  him. 
Do  not  go  away,  Madam,  but  stay,  and,  though  you  suffer, 
hear  what  I  say  to  him. 

INEZ.  I  consent,  Madam ;  though  I  very  well  know  that 
were  another  in  my  place,  she  would  avoid  being  present 
at  such  a  conversation. 

ELV.  If  Heaven  seconds  my  wishes,  Madam,  you  shall 
have  no  cause  to  repine. 

SCENE   V. — DON  ALPHONSO  (believed  to  be  Don  Silvio), 
DONNA  ELVIRA,  DONNA  INEZ. 

ELV.  Before  you  say  a  word,  my  Lord,  I  earnestly  beg 
that  you  will  deign  to  hear  me  for  a  moment.  Fame  has 
already  informed  us  of  the  marvellous  deeds  you  have  per- 
formed. I  wonder  to  see,  as  all  do,  how  quickly  and  suc- 
cessfully you  have  changed  our  lot.  I  know  very  well  that 
such  an  eminent  service  can  never  be  sufficiently  rewarded, 
and  that  nothing  ought  to  be  refused  to  you  for  that  never- 
to-be-forgotten  deed  which  replaces  my  brother  on  the 
throne  of  his  ancestors.  But  whatever  his  grateful  heart 
may  offer  you,  make  a  generous  use  of  your  advantages, 


SCENE  v.]  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  251 

and  do  not  employ  your  glorious  action,  my  Lord,  to 
make  me  bend  under  an  imperious  yoke;  nor  let  your 
love — for  you  know  who  is  the  object  of  my  passion — 
persist  in  triumphing  over  a  well-founded  refusal ;  let  not 
my  brother,  to  whom  they  are  going  to  present  me,  begin 
his  reign  by  an  act  of  tyranny  over  his  sister.  Leon  has 
other  rewards  which  for  the  nonce,  may  do  more  honour 
to  your  lofty  valour.  A  heart  which  you  can  obtain  only 
by  compulsion,  would  be  too  mean  a  reward  for  your 
courage.  Can  a  man  be  ever  really  satisfied  when,  by 
coercion,  he  obtains  what  he  loves?  It  is  a  melancholy 
advantage ;  a  generous-minded  lover  refuses  to  be  happy 
upon  such  conditions.  He  will  not  owe  anything  to  that 
pressure  which  relatives  think  they  have  a  right  to  employ ; 
he  is  ever  too  fond  of  the  maiden  he  loves,  to  suffer  her 
to  be  sacrificed  as  a  victim,  even  to  himself.  Not  that  my 
heart  intends  to  grant  to  another  what  it  refuses  to  you. 
No,  my  Lord,  I  promise  you,  and  pledge  you  my  word  of 
honour,  that  no  one  shall  ever  obtain  my  hand,  that  a 
convent  shall  protect  me  against  every  other  .  .  . 

ALPH.  Madam,  I  have  listened  long  enough  to  your  dis- 
course, and  might,  by  two  words,  have  prevented  it  all,  if 
you  had  given  less  credit  to  false  tidings.  I  know  that  a 
common  report,  which  is  everywhere  believed,  attributes 
to  me  the  glory  of  having  killed  the  tyrant ;  but  as  we 
have  been  informed,  the  people  alone,  stirred  up  by  Don 
Louis  to  do  their  duty,  have  performed  this  honourable 
and  heroic  act,  which  public  rumour  ascribed  to  me. 
The  reason  of  these  tidings  was  that  Don  Louis,  the  better 
to  carry  out  his  lofty  purpose,  spread  a  report  that  I  and 
my  soldiers  had  made  ourselves  masters  of  the  town ;  by 
this  news  he  so  excited  the  people,  that  they  hastened  to 
kill  the  usurper.  He  has  managed  everything  by  his  pru- 
dent zeal,  and  has  just  sent  me  notice  of  this  by  one  of 
his  servants.  At  the  same  time,  a  secret  has  been  revealed 
to  me  which  will  astonish  you  as  much  as  it  surprised  me. 
You  expect  a  brother,  and  Leon  its  true  master ;  Heaven 
now  presents  him  before  you.  Yes,  I  am  Don  Alphonso; 
I  was  brought  up  and  educated  under  the  name  of  Prince 
of  Castile ;  this  clearly  proves  the  sincere  friendship  that 
existed  between  Don  Louis  and  the  King,  my  father. 


252  DON   GARCIA   OF    NAVARRE;  [ACT  v. 

Don  Louis  has  all  the  proofs  of  this  secret,  and  will  estab- 
lish its  truth  to  the  whole  world.  But  now  my  thoughts 
are  taken  up  with  other  cares;  I  am  clear  how  to  act 
towards  you;  not  that  my  passion  is  opposed  to  such  a 
discovery,  or  that  the  brother  in  my  heart  quarrels  with 
the  lover.  The  revelation  of  this  secret  has,  without  the 
least  murmur,  changed  my  ardour  into  a  love  commanded 
by  nature ;  the  tie  of  relationship  which  unites  us  has  so 
entirely  freed  me  from  the  love  which  I  entertained  for 
you,  that  the  highest  favour  I  now  long  for  is  the  sweet 
delights  of  my  first  chain,  and  the  means  of  rendering  to 
the  adorable  Inez  that  which  her  excessive  goodness  de- 
serves.20 But  the  uncertainty  of  her  lot  renders  mine  mis- 
erable; if  what  is  reported  be  true,  then  it  will  be  in  vain 
for  Leon  to  invite  me,  and  for  a  throne  to  wait  for  me ; 
for  a  crown  could  not  make  me  happy.  I  only  wished  for 
its  splendour  in  order  to  let  me  taste  the  joy  of  placing  it 
on  the  head  of  that  maiden  for  whom  Heaven  destined 
me,  and  by  those  means  to  repair,  as  far  as  I  could,  the 
wrong  I  have  done  to  her  extraordinary  virtues.  It  is  from 
you,  Madam,  I  expect  tidings  as  to  what  has  become  of 
her.  Be  pleased  to  communicate  them,  and  by  your 
words  hasten  my  despair,  or  the  happiness  of  my  life. 

ELV.  Do  not  wonder  if  I  delay  answering  you ;  for  this 
news,  my  Lord,  bewilders  me.  I  will  not  take  upon  me 
to  tell  your  loving  heart,  whether  Donna  Inez  be  dead  or 
alive ;  but  this  gentleman  here,  who  is  one  of  her  most 
intimate  friends,  will  doubtless  give  you  some  informa- 
tion about  her. 

ALPH.  {Recognising  Donna  Inez).  Ah,  Madam,  in  this 
dilemma  I  am  happy  to  behold  again  your  heavenly  beauty. 
But  with  what  eye  can  you  look  upon  a  fickle  lover,  whose 
crime  .  .  . 

INEZ.  Ah !  do  not  insult  me,  and  venture  to  state  that  a 
heart,  which  I  hold  dear,  could  be  inconstant.  I  cannot 
bear  the  thought,  and  the  apology  pains  me.  All  the 
love  you  felt  for  the  Princess  could  not  offend  rne,  because 
her  great  worth  is  a  sufficient  excuse.  The  love  you  bore 

20  Compare  the  manner  in  which  Andres,  in  The  Blunderer  (Act  v., 
Scene  15),  recognises  his  sister  in  Celia. 


SCENE  vi.J  OR,  THE  JEALOUS   PRINCE.  253 

her  is  no  proof  of  your  guilt  towards  me.  Learn  that  if 
you  had  been  culpable,  the  lofty  pride  within  me  would 
have  made  you  sue  in  vain  to  overcome  my  contempt,  and 
that  neither  repentance  nor  commands  could  have  induced 
me  to  forget  such  an  insult. 

ELV.  Ah,  dear  brother, — allow  me  to  call  you  by  this 
gentle  name, — you  render  your  sister  very  happy !  I  love 
your  choice,  and  bless  fortune,  which  enables  you  to  crown 
so  pure  a  friendship  !  Of  the  two  noble  hearts  I  so  ten- 
derly love  .  .  . 

SCENE  VI. — DON  GARCIA,  DONNA  ELVIRA,  DONNA  INEZ, 
DON  ALPHONSO,  ELIZA. 

GARC.  For  mercy's  sake,  Madam,  hide  from  me  your 
satisfaction,  and  let  me  die  in  the  belief  that  a  feeling  of 
duty  compels  you.  I  know  you  can  freely  dispose  of  your 
hand ;  I  do  not  intend  to  run  counter  to  your  wishes.  I 
have  proved  this  sufficiently,  as  well  as  my  obedience  to 
your  commands.  But  I  must  confess  that  this  levity  sur- 
prises me,  and  shakes  all  my  resolutions.  Such  a  sight 
awakens  a  storm  of  passion  which  I  fear  I  cannot  command, 
though  I  would  punish  myself,  if  this  could  make  me  lose 
that  profound  respect  I  wish  to  preserve.  Yes,  you  have 
ordered  me  to  bear  patiently  my  unfortunate  love ;  your 
behest  has  so  much  influence  over  my  heart,  that  I  will 
rather  die  than  disobey  you.  But  still,  the  joy  you  display 
tries  me  too  severely ;  the  wisest  man,  upon  such  an  oc- 
casion, can  but  ill  answer  for  his  conduct.  Suppress  it,  I 
beseech  you,  for  a  few  moments,  and  spare  me,  Madam, 
this  cruel  trial ;  however  great  your  love  for  my  rival  may 
be,  do  not  let  me  be  a  wretched  witness  of  his  felicity. 
This  is  the  smallest  favour  I  think  a  lover  may  ask,  even 
when  he  is  disliked  as  much  as  I  am.  I  do  not  seek  this 
favour  for  long,  Madam  j  my  departure  will  soon  satisfy 
you.  I  go  where  sorrow  shall  consume  my  soul,  and  shall 
learn  your  marriage  only  by  hearsay;  I  ought  not  to  hasten 
to  behold  such  a  spectacle ;  for,  without  seeing  it,  it 
will  kill  me. 

INEZ.  Give  me  leave,  my  Lord,  to  blame  you  for  com- 
plaining, because  the  Princess  has  deeply  felt  your  mis- 
fortunes ;  this  very  joy  at  which  you  murmur,  arises  solely 


254  DON   GARCIA   OF   NAVARRE;  [ACT  v. 

from  the  happiness  that  is  in  store  for  you.  She  rejoices 
in  a  success  which  has  favoured  your  heart's  desire,  and 
has  discovered  that  your  rival  is  her  brother.  Yes,  Don 
Alphonso,  whose  name  has  been  so  bruited  about,  is  her 
brother  ;  this  great  secret  has  just  now  been  told  to  her. 

ALPH.  My  heart,  thank  Heaven,  after  a  long  torture, 
has  all  that  it  can  desire,  and  deprives  you  of  nothing,  my 
Lord.  I  am  so  much  the  happier,  because  I  am  able  to 
forward  your  love. 

GARC.  Alas  !  my  Lord,  I  am  overwhelmed  by  your 
goodness,  which  condescends  to  respond  to  my  dearest 
wishes.  Heaven  has  averted  the  blow  that  I  feared ;  any 
other  man  but  myself  would  think  himself  happy.  But 
the  fortunate  discovery  of  this  favourable  secret,  proves 
oie  to  be  culpable  towards  her  I  adore ;  I  have  again  suc- 
cumbed to  these  wretched  suspicions,  against  which  I  have 
been  so  often  warned,  and  in  vain  ;  through  them  my  love 
has  becomethateful,  and  I  ought  to  despair  of  ever  being 
happy.  Yes,  Donna  Elvira  has  but  too  good  reason  to 
hate  me ;  I  know  I  am  unworthy  of  pardon  ;  and  what- 
ever success  fortune  may  give  me,  death,  death  alone,  is 
all  that  I  can  expect. 

ELV.  No,  no,  Prince,  your  submissive  attitude  brings 
more  tender  feelings  into  my  heart ;  I  feel  that  the  oath 
I  took  is  no  longer  binding  on  me ;  your  complaints,  your 
respect,  your  grief  has  moved  me  to  compassion  ;  I  see  an 
excess  of  love  in  all  your  actions,  and  your  malady  de- 
serves to  be  pitied.  Since  Heaven  is  the  cause  of  your 
faults,  some  indulgence  ought  to  be  allowed  to  them ;  in 
one  word,  jealous  or  not  jealous,  my  King  will  have  no 
compulsion  to  employ  when  he  gives  me  to  you. 

GARC.  Heaven !  enable  me  to  bear  the  excess  of  joy 
which  this  confession  produces. 

ALPH.  I  trust,  my  Lord,  that  after  all  our  useless  dissen- 
sions, this  marriage  may  forever  unite  our  hearts  and  king- 
doms. But  time  presses,  and  Leon  expects  us  ;  let  us  go 
therefore,  and,  by  our  presence  and  watchfulness  give  the 
last  blow  to  the  tyrant's  party. 


tw 


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